


Little Nudge Out of the Door, A

by Jocelyn



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Canon - Solves frequent reader complaint, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, Elves, Fellowship of the Ring, Mirkwood, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Joy, Plot - Surprising reversals, Plot - Tear-jerker, Pre-Canon, Subjects - Animals, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Economics, Subjects - Geography, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Medical/Healing, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Plants/Environment, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Experimental, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 250,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3815377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jocelyn/pseuds/Jocelyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age.  Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."</p><p>Now complete and revised!</p><p>Mithril Awards 2003 - Commended - Best story focusing on Elves</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Quiet One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The grand palace of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, was so crowded that it resembled a city of Gondor, rather than an elven home. Through its wood and marble halls, corridors, and chambers, elves moved to and fro, milling, speaking in eager anticipation. It was the Gathering of the Realms, a great gathering of the elves of Middle Earth that took place once every hundred years, hosted this time by Mirkwood. For two weeks, many meetings and councils had been held by elf lords, warriors, and craftsmen, discussing all the business of the elves, and of Middle Earth. For those fourteen days, the elf population of the palace and surrounding forest had swollen to ten times its usual size.

Two days still remained of the Gathering, but many considered today’s event to be the climax. This morning would be the Great Gathering Trials--an archery competition of delegates from every elven realm. The delegates were novices, untested in battle, but with centuries of training. Participation in the Trials signaled the Warrior’s Coming of Age, also called the Second Coming of Age, when an elf who had chosen weapons-bearing as their craft could take up the full responsibilities and privileges of adulthood, and they could join war parties as equals rather than novices. Elves who chose war as their art were believed to need many more years of training and discipline than other crafts, for the warrior’s life had far more demands upon it. Centuries of training were required for elven warriors, and the end of those schooling years signaled this final ascension into adulthood. Thus, the climax of the Great Gathering, the Trial, recognized this momentous occasion. Only those novices who had reached or would reach the qualifying age this century were eligible--and an elf could only compete once.

The Trials would begin in two hours, and heavy arguments--as well as wagers--were being made on who the winner would be. Lothlórien had held the title for seven Gatherings, and every year the other delegations hoped to dethrone them. Emotions of the elves of Mirkwood were especially high; for the host realm to triumph was a particular honor.

The participants were readying themselves in the training rooms, near the warriors’ chambers in the outermost part of the palace. Like their kinsmen, the four delegates of Mirkwood were feeling the pressure of being the host realm. As they stretched muscles and practiced breathing, they talked excitedly among themselves--that is to say, three of them did.

“The wagering favors Eregolf of Lórien, Gwilwileth tells me,” Lady Merilin, daughter of Lord Heledir, told no one in particular.

“Lórien is always favored, but Faron of Imladris is more than Eregolf’s equal,” Tathar, son of Alagos replied.

“I rode with Faron back to Rivendell last year, and saw him on the practice fields,” Candrochon, son of Anunborn, added. “He is a formidable shot.”

“What of Princess Lalven?” Tathar asked.

Candrochon snorted. “Accomplished she is, but Merilin could outshoot her with one eye closed. I’m more concerned about Berelyn of--”

“Enough of this,” a stern voice broke through the chatter. The novices looked guiltily at Langcyll, warrior captain of Mirkwood and head novice master. “You have sufficient concerns of your own this morning without the skill of your opponents occupying your minds.”

“Yes, sir,” the novices replied sheepishly.

“He is right, you know,” Merilin remarked. “We should look to our own game.”

“Archery is hardly a game, Merilin,” Candrochon protested.

“No, but the Gathering Trial is, as Langcyll and the others unceasingly remind us,” Tathar told him. “All novice training is a game.” He paused for a moment, a twinkle in his bright eyes, then said loudly, “Kindly cease dominating the conversation, Legolas.”  
  
The fourth delegate of Mirkwood had scarcely said a word since they arrived. Legolas, youngest son of King Thranduil, had been standing to one side of the training room, massaging the muscles of his shoulders. At Tathar’s sarcastic remark, he focused his eyes abruptly on his companions and blushed. “Forgive me. I was thinking.”

“Of what?”

With a twinkle of merriment in his own dark eyes, he answered, “Of my own game.”

“That’s no excuse for neglecting your comrades,” Merilin scolded. “Seeing especially as you are Mirkwood’s finest archer.”

Legolas looked away. “We are all equals until the Trials are over. Only when our scores are tallied can we say who is finer than who. I am not perfect.”

“That has never prevented you from trying to be, which is why you continuously outperform the rest of us,” Tathar replied, but there was no malice in his voice, only amusement. It was no secret among the Mirkwood elves that Prince Legolas was the finest archer of this generation, and he was heavily favored as their champion. Many Gatherings before, his older sister Limloeth had placed second to an elf of Lórien in one of the closest matches in history, causing considerable good-natured anguish among the Mirkwood elves. When Legolas had bested Limloeth in a Mirkwood competition several decades ago, the hopes of the realm began to sing that this would be their year. *And poor Legolas has born the burden of their desires ever since,* Tathar thought sympathetically.

Tathar was one of the prince’s closest companions outside his family--in fact, Legolas had few companions outside his family not associated with either his studies or training. Although he would never mention it to Legolas‘s face, Tathar was appalled at how sheltered a life King Thranduil‘s youngest son led. In the centuries that he had been alive, he had never left Mirkwood, or even ventured far beyond the palace walls. Tathar was uncertain what the reasons were behind this; Legolas had two brothers and one sister, all of whom had grown up mixing with other elves and seeing other lands and races. Legolas spoke fluently the languages of many races, yet he had scarcely ever seen a man, let alone a dwarf or an orc.

Tathar realized he was daydreaming, and looked back at his companions. Merilin and Candrochon were wondering what sort of obstacles the Trial overseers were thinking up for the last leg of the course, and Legolas was thinking again--*brooding is probably a better word for it.* Aloud, Tathar said, “I think, my friends, we shall never be more prepared than we are now. For all our training, if we dwell too much, we may handicap ourselves.”

Merilin nodded. “You are right. No one has ever tallied a perfect score in the Gathering Trial--we shall all sustain faults. If we allow them to drive us to despair, we shall have no chance at winning the title for the wood elves.”

“Therefore, let us be merry!” Candrochon laughed, gripping Merilin’s arm and clapping Legolas on the back. For his part, Legolas still looked tense.

***

Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, stood upon a platform showing the best view of the course for the Trials. About him, seated in chairs or standing and talking in groups were the lords and ladies of all the elven realms. Lady Narmeril and Lord Heledir of Mirkwood stood in conversation with Lord Elrond of Imladris, his daughter the Lady Arwen was seated beside Lady Eirien, the wife of Thranduil’s eldest son, Berensul. Berensul was standing very close to Arwen’s brother Elladan, and they were joined in earnest conversation by Haldir of Lórien--and Thranduil soon suspected they were making a wager on the Trials. He chuckled to himself.

He turned back to the field. It was nearly time. The running of the Trial was overseen by delegates from all the elven realms. Langcyll and Eregdos were overseeing for Mirkwood, Elrohir and Glorfindel for Imladris, Rúmil and Orophin for Lórien, and others from the smaller elven Realms, and wandering elves. Throughout the course, the officiating elves were preparing for the start of the Trials, while other elves had gathered by the hundreds along the perimeters to watch.

In the midst of a crowd standing nearly beneath the tree that held the noble elves, a cry suddenly went up. “Mithrandir! Mithrandir has come!”

Thranduil went to the very front of the platform, the other elf lords and ladies surrounding him, and looked down. Sure enough, the one known to men as Gandalf the Grey, wizard and elf-friend, had come to watch the Trials. “Langcyll!” Thranduil called down. “Let him come up!” Moments later, the tall, grey-clad wizard had climbed up to the high platform to the cries of delight from the elves there. “Welcome, and well met, Mithrandir. A star shines upon the hour of our meeting,” Thranduil said warmly.

Gandalf bowed, “My thanks, Lord Thranduil. I had planned to arrive for the final Council of the Realms, but I should not wish to miss this Great Trial. I perceive it shall begin soon, then?”

“Very soon, my friend,” said Thranduil.

“It will be a great day for Mirkwood if your Prince Legolas should win,” Gandalf remarked.

“We have four fine archers entered in the Trial,” Thranduil told him. “And novices no more, after this morning. It will be a great honor for Mirkwood if any of them should win or place.”

Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows at the King’s neutral tone, then he nodded cheerfully to Lord Elrond, who had moved to join them. “Well met, my lord.”

“Mithrandir, my friend, I am pleased you arrived in time,” Elrond replied. “How are things with you?”

“Well, my lord, thank you. And I do believe the sun is reaching Mirkwood’s floor on this day. Even the darkest shadow cannot withstand the eagerness of so many elves.” Gandalf was right, the lords observed. Though a shadow had hung so long over Mirkwood, rare rays of light had pierced it on this day, filtering through the leaves. Then the wizard’s gaze fell upon Thranduil’s sons Belhador and Berensul, arguing rather vigorously with Elrond’s son Elladan, and Haldir of Lórien. With a sly smile, Gandalf lowered his voice, “The wagering is very exciting this year, I see.”

Thranduil chuckled. “For all their traded whispers and rumors, none can seem to determine the likely winner. It shall be an interesting trial.” He gave a sly smile of his own, “I suspect Lord Elrond was contemplating placing a wager on Rivendell’s Gaerongil.”

Elrond affected an affronted expression that fooled neither of his friends. “Indeed, you are mistaken, Lord Thranduil.” He paused, glancing down at the field, then murmured to them, “I placed my stake on Faron.”

The three laughed heartily. In spite of the troubles that seemed to grow like a persistent weed throughout Middle Earth, nothing could put a damper upon the high spirits of this morning. Then the King moved back as a hush fell over the assembled elves.

Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, the highest of all elves, entered the platform as a path opened for them in the crowd. Thranduil bowed and gave way for them to take the two front most seats. The other elves moved to their own places, Thranduil to the right of Galadriel and Celeborn, as was customary for the host of the Great Gathering. They smiled often, and spoke little, but as the overseers were making the final inspection of the trial fields, Galadriel suddenly turned. “If it please you, Mithrandir, come and sit on my left. I know how you enjoy our Great Trial, and you shall have the finest view.”

Gandalf stepped forward from where he had stood among the other elves, and bowed low to her. “You do me a great honor, Lady.” He took the offered seat as the overseers took their positions, and Langcyll stepped to the center of the field, facing the platform.

He addressed Galadriel, “All is ready, my lady.”

Galadriel rose, and there was a collective intake of breath from the throng, for her beauty and majesty struck awe into all who beheld her, even her kindred. She spoke solemnly, “Though the shadows may threaten our lands and our borders, let them have no power over our hearts. At this, the Gathering of the Realms, all the elves of Middle Earth are come in the spirit of friendship and strength. Now is a time for joy!” In a clear, ringing voice, she raised her arms and declared, “Let the Great Trial of the Gathering of the Realms begin!”

It did seem as though the oppressive shadow that had hung over Mirkwood for centuries lifted, and sunlight turned the leaves to dazzling emerald. There was a great roar of applause, lively and exciting music began to play, and an elf herald announced the candidates as they entered the field to begin the first stage of the trials. The name of each delegate received a great cry from their homeland. “Faron of Imladris! Eregolf of Lórien! Merilin of Mirkwood.”

No rank or lineage was given, only the name and realm of origin for each contestant. For it is tradition that elf warriors fight to defend their homelands, not merely to gain glory for self or family name. And when an elf archer reaches the end of novice hood and attains entry into the Great Gathering Trials, it is acknowledged that he has earned this honor for himself, with his own labor and practice. “Tathar of Mirkwood! Gaerongil of Imladris!”

Though the noble elves applauded all the candidates out of courtesy, slight changes in the force of their clapping could be heard among the kin of the competitors. Seated behind King Thranduil, three of his children, Crown Prince Berensul, Princess Limloeth and Prince Belhador, whispered among themselves. “Elladan has placed a heavy wager on their Faron. They say Lórien will fall to Imladris this year,” Belhador said discreetly.

“Faron is a fine archer and warrior, yes,” Limloeth whispered back. “And Lórien may well fall to Imladris. But in any case, both shall fall to Mirkwood this year.”

“To our brother,” Berensul agreed, smiling broadly. The children of Thranduil had their share of sibling rivalries, but on this day, the brothers and sisters of Legolas wanted nothing but glory and joy for him. For all he had done, and born, in their eyes, he deserved nothing less.

“Look, there he comes!” Limloeth gasped, the pitch of her voice raising with excitement.

Legolas would soon be announced; his family could see him waiting with the others to enter the field. “Is he nervous, do you think?” Berensul murmured. None bothered to answer him--the answer was so certain as to make the question ridiculous.

If Tathar of Mirkwood believed himself to be the only one who noticed Legolas’s timidity, he was mistaken. The elder sons and daughters of King Thranduil had long wondered at his over-protectiveness of Legolas, and at their youngest brother’s strangely inhibited nature. As they watched him moving toward the front of the line of archers being announced, it was painfully clear to all his siblings that Legolas was desperately nervous. Belhador murmured, “May any god, spirit, or fate that hears us grant him victory.”

 

*****

 

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE: LEGOLAS’S FAMILY AND FRIENDS:

Crown Prince Berensul--Legolas’s eldest brother, heir to the throne,  
Crown Princess Eirien--Berensul’s wife, (formerly from Imladris)  
Princess Limloeth--second child of King Thranduil  
Prince Belhador--sixth child of King Thranduil  
Queen Minuial--Legolas’s mother, died when he was twenty-two (in my universe. I made up her name)

***Note: Apart from Legolas, in this story-universe Thranduil and Minuial had three other children. Where are they, you ask? You’ll have to wait and see.

Langcyll--warrior captain and head novice master of Mirkwood, trained Legolas and other novices  
Lady Merilin--archer of Mirkwood, trained beside Legolas  
Tathar--Legolas’s best friend, fellow archer and training companion  
Candrochon--fellow archer of Mirkwood and training companion  
Faron of Imladris--archer champion of Imladris, friend of the Mirkwood archers  
Gaerongil of Imladris--archer delegate of Imladris, friend of the Mirkwood archers  
Eregolf of Lórien--archer champion of Lórien


	2. The Quiet One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

“Legolas of Mirkwood!” Had Legolas been paying attention to the crowd, he would have noticed that the roar that came in response to his name was far louder than for any of the others. But he scarcely heard them, so focused was his mind upon the task at hand. Yet at the same time, his awareness of everything around him seemed to have sharpened. In what seemed like a separate level of consciousness, he could discern every face in the crowd--as well as put a name to most--and identify the owner of every bow and quiver waiting on stands upon the field. He could see the bull’s eyes of the stationary targets, the fired clay discs that would fly through the air as moving targets, and the horses waiting for the competitors to ride. He could make out the voice of almost everyone he knew.

“I wagered gold on Prince Legolas. Eluthuil of Lórien thought I was mad.”

“That is only because the Lórien and Imladris have not seen the prince shoot. When they do, they shall regret their laughter, my friend.”

“This shall be the Year of Mirkwood, mark my words!”

“Your Prince Legolas shall have to be very fine to surpass our Eregolf, Mirkwood.”

“Watch and learn, Lórien. Pride cometh before the fall. There is no finer archer in Middle Earth than our Legolas! Today the title of Lórien shall fall!”

“We shall see! May the best elf win!”

“He shall, friend, he shall. And it will be the Champion of Mirkwood.”  
  
He took his place several paces behind his own quiver and bow, instinctively looking them over. His bow was the one he always used, carved in the Mirkwood leaf-and-vine pattern with his name and lineage etched in elvish runes near the base. The arrows had been crafted especially for this occasion--Mirkwood brown with green fletching and his initials near the end of the shaft. He had tested, handled, and re-tested every arrow, bent, strung, and re-strung the bow, and though every practical sense in him said that they were ready, his mind was assailed by an endless barrage of “what-ifs” and nightmare scenarios. As the last of the novices took their places on the field, the candidates turned in unison to face the platform. The host of the elf lords rose at Lady Galadriel’s command, her beauty and splendor so great that for a split-second, Legolas could not recall where he was. Then she rose as well, and he remembered. She said nothing; the command was a simple nod to Langcyll.

Langcyll bowed to the Lady, and turned to the candidates. “To your places and make ready to begin!”

Legolas could not help glancing at his father before turning to face the field. Thranduil wore an expression too neutral for Legolas to read. He slung on his quiver and lifted his bow, testing the string. This first stage of the Trial was the most rudimentary exercise of archery--striking a stationary target. Legolas dared an imperceptible glance right and left. On his left was Eregolf, son of Bregsul, the champion archer of Lothlórien. That made him formidable by the reputation of Lórien archers alone. On his right was Gaerongil, son of Feredir of Imladris. He knew many of the other novices considered this stage of the trials so simple that they would hardly concentrate. Legolas had no intention of allowing his focus to slip for even a second. Each shot was a stage of the Trial in itself, and must be given his full attention.

He drew his first arrow, awaiting the signal from Langcyll. The crowd had fallen silent as the novice master of Mirkwood raised his sword. Legolas took careful aim, drew back the bow, and waited. In a flash too quick to follow, the sword fell, bows twanged, and thirty-six arrows were embedded in the bull’s eyes of thirty-six targets before the throng had a chance to gasp.

And so the contest began: the novices loosed their arrows, the arrows were removed from the targets by the overseers, and the novices shot again. Some left multiple marks in the center of the target, yet in other cases, it seemed that only a single arrow had struck, for there was but one hole being filled again and again by arrowheads. Watching from the platform as the contest went on, Elladan of Imladris leaned forward to speak to Berensul, “I congratulate you on the skills of your brother, my friend.”

Smiling without taking his eyes off the field or Legolas, Berensul replied casually, “Are you not premature on your congratulations? They have only just begun the most simple stage of the trial.”

Elladan grinned back, both of them knowing him to be a good judge, “In such a stage, there runs the risk of error through carelessness.” Limloeth and Eirien glanced back at him, and Arwen and Haldir leaned forward to listen. “See how hurriedly some of them shoot--they do not pause to aim or draw back properly. This stage is not a test of speed, but accuracy, and yet they grudge even an extra second to study their aim. And their hopes of the championship may pay dearly for it.”

“Young Prince Legolas is not among those of whom you speak,” Lady Narmeril of Mirkwood had also been listening to Elladan.

“Nor is your daughter, Lady,” Berensul observed, nodding to where Merilin of Mirkwood had paused to correct her grip on the arrow before letting it fly. “Nor Faron of Imladris. But my learned friend is right, those candidates who do not take proper care in this stage may find it the stage that destroys their chances.”

As if confirming their observations, a shot from one of the novices missed the bull’s eye by a fraction, causing a gasp from the spectators and a wince from Haldir--the unfortunate elf was from Lórien. “Do not despair, Haldir,” laughed Arwen. “The contest is still young, and they have many events in which to demonstrate their skills.”

“AND incur faults!” added Elladan, gaining laughter all around.

***

The tension decreased little as the Trial wore on. Then, just as both spectators and archers were relaxing into the pattern of aiming and shooting at a single, bull’s eye target, the overseers switched to a new one: a white target with a line of red spots no larger than a coin, right down the center. This, unlike the first stage, WAS a speed trial, but both speed and accuracy were required to avoid faults. The candidates stood ready, bows at rest, until Langcyll gave the signal. Then they whipped out arrow after arrow, shooting each red spot in turn until each target had a line of arrows down the center, some neater than others. Gasps and cries rang out as the elves in the crowd attempted to discern who had scored the highest.

Prince Belhador leaned forward in his seat, narrowing his eyes. “It was too close. I cannot tell who ranked best in that stage.”

“Eregolf of Lórien was very accurate,” observed Arwen. “And our Faron and Gaerongil. And Mirkwood‘s Legolas and Candrochon. I could not see who finished the most swiftly.”

Mithrandir turned to her with a smile. “It was young Prince Legolas. Your Gaerongil was just behind him, followed by Lord Eregolf of Lórien and Princess Lalven of Lindon. I think the tally shall reveal that Legolas, Faron of Imladris, Candrochon of Mirkwood, and Eregolf of Lórien completed the stage with the most accuracy--in that order.”

***

The next stage involved moving targets. The novices stood groups of six in clearings scattered throughout the greenwood--each one surrounded by spectators shouting encouragement to their favorites. Smooth, thin discs of fired clay, barely visible in the greens and browns of the forest, dropped from trees and were lofted into the air from unseen sources. Their brows furrowed with concentration, keen elven senses watching the space about them, listening for the whistle in the wind, even feeling the movement of the air as the targets flew in every direction. The novices increased their score by striking the most targets, but also incurred faults for every target that they missed. When the stage was over, the overseers would count the number of arrows on the ground that had missed their mark.

From a smaller platform in one of the tall, sturdy trees behind the young archers, Thranduil watched his youngest son with a sense of pride that he carefully avoided displaying. But the skill of the fifth elf in the line was not unnoticed by the other elves. “Prince Legolas is the finest Mirkwood archer of this generation, my lord,” Lady Narmeril remarked quietly from behind him.

“Indeed,” agreed another of the elf lords. “He has not yet missed a single target. He is a credit to Mirkwood.”

Thranduil said nothing, merely made a small neutral noise. While he certainly agreed with the other elf lords’ assessment of Legolas, the prince was still very young and had much to learn. On the ground and from surrounding trees, the overseers began tossing targets of another color into the air--pale tan instead of dark brown. These were “friend” targets as opposed to “foe” targets and the archers were not meant to hit them.  
  
The object of the elven lords’ admiration was concentrating so hard on not missing his targets, that when the first tan disc appeared in the air, he did not grasp the significance of the change in color, but fired at once and saw the target explode into small, harmless fragments. Then he winced inwardly as mind caught up with instinct and he heard the cry of “Fault!” from one of the overseers. *I had a perfect score until now,* Legolas berated himself, but there was no time to dwell on the fault, for the pace was picking up. He focused his mind on noticing the color as well as the position, speed, and angle of the targets, and began hitting them accurately again.

From his seat in the trees, Thranduil made no reaction to the fault other than to pull his mouth slightly to one side, an action that went unobserved by the other elves standing or seated behind him. Lord Elrond chuckled, “Still a credit, if not as utterly perfect as one might hope.”

To the watching elves, it seemed an eternity between each stage of the trial. To the competitors, there was scarcely time to catch their breath. Legolas made no additional faults that round; though he was disgusted with himself for having made such a careless error, he knew better than to let it interfere with his concentration. The next stage was just as grueling; the candidates’ skill and care of their weapons was tested with speed trials of restringing bows and refilling quivers. The contest was now running on the time of each of the contestants; there would be no pause between stages. Scores would be affected by who finished first.

Sweating, his hands shaking, Legolas knew he was ahead as he finished the string of his bow and fired a test shot at one of the targets. Bull’s eye. The Trial turned into a stream of consciousness where he felt he was inside a tunnel. Standing up and swinging his two quivers onto his back, he whistled sharply. His gray mount galloped over; Legolas wasted no time but leapt to the horse’s back, “Noro lim, Lanthir! Noro lim!” Lanthir sensed his rider’s fervor and galloped off at full speed into the next stage; the first of two obstacle courses. *I mustn’t ride too hard or I risk missing targets,* Legolas thought as he readied his bow. Shooting from horseback was tricky. Lanthir raced on through the woods, and Legolas strained his eyes watching for targets.

He was peripherally aware of other horses galloping to try and catch him, and identified them by their sounds. Merilin, Eregolf of Lórien and Faron of Imladris were just behind him, but Candrochon was gaining on them fast. He could hear Tathar entering the riding course, and there were so many other riders behind him that it would sap his concentration to try and identify them.

The riders passed under a banner of white flags, and the obstacle course had begun. A small black target on a stick was suddenly thrust into Legolas’s view from high in the trees. He drew an arrow, took aim, and heard rather than saw it hit its mark as he passed below. Wasting no time, he targeted the next that popped out from behind the trees and struck it cleanly. Behind him, he was aware of more twanging bowstrings, whistling arrows, and targets being struck. And some arrows whistling through the air without hitting anything.

Without warning, a branch snapped out and whipped across his neck, nearly unseating him. Obstacles! And another fault. *Curse the Valar!* He managed not to miss the next target, but heard another horse gaining on him. Eregolf of Lórien. *If I speed up, I may bounce too much and miss a target. But Eregolf has doubtlessly played a clean game; if I lose ground to him, we may lose the championship.* “Noro lim, Lanthir!” he whispered, and thought he heard the horse snort doubtfully. But Lanthir obeyed, and Legolas fought to keep his arms steady as he aimed for the next target.

But in spite of all that, the aim was true. *I must not forget to watch for--ai!* Legolas ducked frantically as another branch (doubtlessly pulled back by one of the overseers) swung out at him. It whipped over his head, and he heard a shout, a startled whinny, then a crash. *So much for Eregolf.* But Candrochon was not far behind, and his name did not mean “bold rider” for naught. Legolas dreaded the thought of facing his very nimble comrade in the footrace that would be in the final stage.

Looking ahead, he sucked in his breath. There was a massive log fallen across the path, and logs were never left across Mirkwood paths by accident. Lanthir would have quite a jump over it--and just beyond it, Legolas could see another red target against a tree. *They would not make the target so obvious without reason. This shall be a complicated shot.* He knew as he bore down on it that he had two choices: shoot before the jump, which would be an easy hit with no fault, or shoot just as Lanthir jumped, risking a fault--but a much higher score if he should strike the target. He could not slow down to think; Candrochon was too close, and if Legolas did not keep the lead going over the jump, he would be pinned in second place on the narrow horse trial until the start of the footrace--where Candrochon would have a still greater advantage.

*I must choose now. There is little time. If I fault, I will still have only three. But if I should strike during a jump, I will gain many points. Perhaps even if Candrochon should outrun me, I would still have the higher score.* His time was up. “Noro path, Lanthir, noro bell!” Legolas leaned forward, bow and arrow ready, as Lanthir bore down on the log. He would have but one chance.

***

The shouts from other elves at their vantage points along the riding course reached the noble elves still awaiting the outcome. “Prince Legolas is attempting the jump shot!” Gandalf called to Berensul.

Limloeth gave a hissing intake of breath, “That was the shot I missed in my Trial.” She did not say, but the others recalled--the fault from that failed attempt had been the reason Mirkwood lost on points.

Belhador was all but hopping up and down at the end of the platform, straining to see through the thick trees. “The view of the course is obscured. Would that we could see what was happening!”

All the prince’s siblings could do was gauge the reaction of the crowd of elves who were able to see the course. The few seconds it would take for Legolas to clear the jump on horseback felt as an eternity.

***

Lanthir was yards from the log, then feet, and Legolas readied himself. He felt the horse’s front legs rise *draw back now,* his back legs launch themselves, *aim*--and as the gray stallion was in full leap over the log, Legolas loosed his arrow. Time seemed to stop. Lanthir’s head went down as he lowered himself back to the ground, his back legs pulling themselves cleanly over the huge fallen tree. The arrow aced forward, forward, on, on…

***

A massive cry of triumph and disbelief erupted from the watching elves, and Limloeth clapped her hands to her mouth as the elves of Mirkwood exploded into cheers and embraces. “He has done it! He has done it!”

Shouts for silence and attention heralded the attempts by the next competitors. Some opted for the safer shot and scored the usual amount of points for striking a stationary target. Others attempted the jump shot. None completed it. As the last horse cleared the jump and the contestant’s shot fell to the left of the target, the Mirkwood elves went wild again. Legolas was now far into the lead, both on points and speed. Many had burst into songs of victory, but Elladan of Imladris remarked, “Their songs are premature yet. They still have the footrace, and it is the hardest stage of all.”

***

His mind reeling, it was all Legolas could do to aim and shoot as he rode through the remainder of the horse trail, trusting in Lanthir to keep them on the path. A part of his mind felt as though it was still at the jump shot, suspended over the tree and seeing his arrow fly toward the target. And another part was in front of him, watching for obstacles and somehow managing to keep his arrows pointed where they needed to be. The rest seemed caught in some kind of haze, and try as he might, he could not bring himself back into full awareness, though he knew he risked a serious mistake if he did not focus.

It was Candrochon who finally brought him out of it. A bow twanged not far behind, but a muffled curse followed the telltale silence of a missed target. *I must pay attention. I must be as far ahead of Candrochon as possible at the start of the footrace.* “Noro lim, Lanthir!” The elven horse was growing weary, but Legolas had not only exercised himself for this great event. He knew Lanthir could last the rest of the race.

*I must make ready; we are almost there!* Legolas leaned forward tensely. Then he and Lanthir burst over some low branches into a clearing surrounded by banners, signaling the next stage--the footrace. They had barely cleared the trees when Legolas was off Lanthir’s back, urging the horse to the side of the clearing. He whipped out an arrow and shot a target on a tree above the spectators, signaling his entrance into the next stage. An overseer waved a white flag of clearance, and slinging his quiver back on his shoulder, bow in hand, Legolas broke into a hard run just short of a full sprint and dashed into the trees.

*****

 

 

 

Noro lim, Lanthir!--ride on, Lanthir  
Noro path, Lanthir, noro bell--ride smooth, Lanthir, ride strong.


	3. A Novice No More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

“The footrace is begun!” an excited spectator cried to the elf lords and ladies on their platform. “Prince Legolas leads!”

The Mirkwood elves were in a near frenzy. From his seat on the platform, King Thranduil could hear his other children murmuring prayers of encouragement to their youngest brother. On his left, Lady Galadriel wore a detached smile that suggested to him that she could sense the exact position of every one of the competitors. For himself, Thranduil wore a carefully objective expression as was required of the elven lords at this event. Perhaps only Gandalf the Grey noticed that the elven king was gripping the armrests of his chair so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

***

Legolas tore down the narrow woodland trail, his elven senses stretched to the point of physical pain. Targets seemed to be popping out from everywhere, and it was all he could do not to stop in his tracks as he loosed arrow after arrow. The knowledge that Candrochon could not be far behind drove him on, his long legs pumping.

So intent was he on watching for targets over his head and at his sides that he nearly forgot to look down. A glint of silver close to the ground caught his eye just barely in time for him to hop over the thin wire stretched across the path. There were obstacles upon this course as well, he reminded himself, and pushed his eyes and ears to sense even more minute movements. It was this extra effort that saved him when another long branch was flung out, nearly level with his waist. There was no chance of ducking it, so Legolas launched himself into the air and practically somersaulted over the thing. He rolled back to his feet and, to his intense relief, heard no cry of “fault” from any of the overseers.

Sounds behind Legolas warned him that Candrochon was gaining on him. *I must fly if I wish to keep my lead. Candrochon is far swifter than I on his feet.* Although there was still a great deal of ground to cover, Legolas drove his weary legs harder, pausing only to aim and shoot at the targets that appeared. But it soon became clear that this final stage was not intended to be a mere test of speed. The track was growing narrower still, and the undergrowth thicker. Both targets and obstacles were coming at a much faster rate, forcing Legolas to slow. Fortunately, Candrochon and the other competitors would also be facing these impediments when they tried to race through the course.

Legolas was certain that his drawing arm was about to give out--if his lungs did not explode first. He could hear more competitors crashing through the course behind him, yet the targets still popped into view before him, and branches and vines still appeared to trip him up or knock him down. *I must not slow down. I must not loose focus…* But something inside his mind was beginning to moan that he could not keep this up much longer. This event was called a “trial” for a reason. *How much further, how much further…*

He took aim at another target and was forced to pause when sweat trickled into his eyes. With a muttered curse, he blotted them on his shoulder; fortunately the target was still there. Sometimes they were pulled back if not hit within a few seconds. He pivoted away from a shrub that suddenly snapped in his direction and ducked under a tossed rock. One target swept out of the trees right over his head, forcing him to lean back in order to strike it. Straightening, he staggered slightly but managed to keep his feet. Barely. *I am lost if my balance fails. How much longer…*

He forced himself onward, heart racing, and all at once, new noises reached his ears--from ahead rather than behind. Familiar cheers and cries. The race course had run in a full circle. He was nearly back to the archery field. Nearly to the finish. He used his free arm to knock aside a branch and continued to run, continued to shoot, the growing cries of the spectators urging him on. A heavier branch--almost a log--swung into his path and he dove to the ground to avoid being slammed right off the trail. The noise was very close now. He was almost there…

All at once, as he forced his way through the dense underbrush, he suddenly burst out into a clearing, to be greeted by frenzied cries of excitement from elves by the thousands, everywhere he looked. He was there. At last. With a massive surge of adrenaline, Legolas sprinted with all his might into the center of the clearing, shot cleanly the black target that ended the footrace, then took aim at a huge white target in the tree below the platform where the elf lords watched. All its rings were white, but there was a different-colored spot no larger than a seed within each circle. Legolas saw the white flag from the overseer just as another elf burst from the foot trail, followed by several more. His pursuers were too late. Drawing a final arrow and taking dead aim, Legolas struck the golden spot at the center of the target, showing himself to be the first finisher. From behind him, another arrow whistled by and struck the second ring, then the third was hit, and within thirty seconds, all six rings showed the arrows of the placing novices. A bell rang, signaling the end of the Great Gathering Trial.

Breathing heavily, but under control, his bow in one hand, Legolas straightened and bowed with the other archers to the elf lords and ladies on the canopied platform above the Final Novice Target. The crowd fell silent as all the noble elves remained seated. Lady Galadriel then rose, and for a brief yet eternal moment, her gaze rested directly upon Legolas. *I should have known. After all this, my heart shall stop, and I will die right here upon the field.*

The honor of closing the Trial always belonged to the Lord of the winning realm. Sometimes it took several minutes for scores to be tallied to determine the winner, but not today. Galadriel turned to Thranduil, King of the triumphant Mirkwood and father of the indisputable winner, and beckoned him to rise. Thranduil stood, gazing at all the archers, and slowly raised his hands and began to applaud. The other lords followed suit and the trees rang with clapping hands of elves, who watched from all sides. Legolas could not restrain himself from looking at his father, but though the elven king nodded approvingly at all the contestants, he did not meet the prince’s eyes.

***

The Great Trial of the Gathering of the Realms was over. Prince Legolas of Mirkwood had won, finishing first in all the speed trials and scoring highest on all target competitions, with only two faults. Most of the ranking elf lords departed with Lady Galadriel, Lord Celeborn, and King Thranduil, but Gandalf remained behind, watching the archers and overseers working on the field and listening with amusement to the talk of the younger nobles still congregating on the platform.

“How did you fare, Belhador?” he heard Lady Arwen ask.

“Your brother Elladan owes me two bottles of wine, my lady.” There was soft laughter from Arwen, then Belhador said, “I hope Imladris is not dreadfully disappointed.”

“I do not believe so. Our Faron placed highly, either third or fourth. We will not know until all the faults and hits are tallied. And our Gaerongil was seventh. Imladris did well today, coming in ahead of Lórien.”

“Poor Haldir looks fit to kill,” whispered Princess Limloeth, and the others laughed. Gandalf chuckled to himself, for she was quite right; Lórien had not fared as well as any of its delegates had expected, and they would doubtless have that fact pointed out repeatedly for the rest of the Gathering.

The wizard glanced discreetly at the young nobles. Mirkwood’s Crown Prince Berensul had joined the group and was showing off a handsomely-carved, silver and jeweled knife that he had just collected from one of the unfortunate Lórien nobles. “Dwarf crafted, it was. Firith has three of them.”

“Had, Brother, had,” the group chortled at Belhador’s correction. “You fool, why did you not ask for the one with the pearls?”

“I considered it, but that one is his favorite, so I took pity on him. It is enough that he will never live down this day!” Berensul replied smugly. “Besides which, I am fond of sapphires.”

“I’ve coveted those dwarven knives of his for years. If we have a likely candidate next Gathering,” Elladan remarked, “I shall see if I can find a suitable treasure to wager against the emerald one.”

“You would do well to make certain you have no chance of losing. For anything that you can offer against Firith’s knives would have to be a treasure of equal value in itself. And speaking of treasures, do not forget--”

“I know, I know. Peace, Belhador, you shall have your wine.”

“You are fortunate I did not take you up on your offer to wager your horse, or I should be riding him about the forest now!”

“He would throw you.”

Forcing his attention away from them before his laughter betrayed him, Gandalf turned his gaze to the field. The champion of the Trial, the hero of the hour, Prince Legolas, was still tarrying upon the field, watching the overseers counting spent arrows. What the son of Thranduil was waiting for, Gandalf could not imagine, for not one of his arrows had missed their mark. The young archer appeared to be merely collecting his thoughts before returning to the embrace of his adoring people and comrades.

Indulging in high spirits even by elf standards, a crowd of Mirkwood elves burst into a song of victory several yards away, and startled Legolas out of his thoughts. Shaking his head slightly, the young elf handed his bow and quiver to the Langcyll, the archer captain of Mirkwood and left the field, a novice no longer. Gandalf noted with interest the intense pride in the gaze of the prince’s former instructor. *Legolas shall soon be one of Langcyll’s archers,* Gandalf thought. *A worthy addition to the forces of Mirkwood, and his skills will be needed in these troubled times.*

Legolas’s faint grimace of pain brought Gandalf’s attention back to him. *He ought not to have stood so still after completing the Trial. His muscles have stiffened.* In spite of his soreness, the young prince carried himself well and accepted the shouts of admiration and congratulations graciously. Perhaps only Gandalf had the perception to detect the slight discomfort Legolas seemed to feel. At first the wizard could not be certain what was bothering the champion, then it came to him as Legolas passed another group of Mirkwood elves.

“Well done, my lord!” “Well played, my Prince!” “My congratulations, my lord!”

Gandalf frowned thoughtfully, then remembered. *Now he that is a full warrior, he is recognized as an elf lord, fully of age. He has never been so addressed before now.* It was still strange. Most young elven princes spent centuries longing for the moment when they would come into their full rank and title, and were elated when they finally heard it recognized. King Thranduil’s youngest son, on the other hand, seemed just the opposite. *He is intriguing even by elf standards, this Legolas. His coming of age may mean a great deal for Middle Earth.*

***

The rooms where the warriors prepared for and returned from their exercises were in the lower level at the outermost part of Mirkwood’s largest fortress, which also housed Thranduil’s halls. The massive edifice rose through the forest in a glistening construction of marble and polished wood. No trees had been felled to make way for its growth; the stairs wound around them, their branches emerged from balconies and windows, and they grew through the courtyards at all parts of the palace. It was an edifice far more solid than most elven buildings, showing the influence of the dwarf craftsmen in its stone, gems, and metalwork. And it hosted an even greater rarity among elven lands--dungeons.

Across a bridge over the Forest River from the outer palace were the old caverns within the mountain that had long housed wood elves’ halls, where the dungeons were found deep within. Most of Thranduil’s folk now dwelt in the outer palace; the inner cave halls were used mostly for storage, but also as a safe haven in the event of an attack from the dark fortress of Dol Guldur in southern Mirkwood. They had been the first part of the new halls built when Thranduil and his people had been forced to move further north when the shadow had first descended upon Greenwood the Great, and hosted the elven king’s famous treasure rooms--and the dungeons. Few of the elves of Mirkwood had ever seen them; even elves found guilty of crimes were placed in the towers at the treetops. Legolas had never lived anywhere but the royal chambers in the outer palace, and he could not remember a time when the dungeons had been occupied.

Legolas wished he could simply slip inside without being noticed or remarked on, but on a day like today there was no chance; not only the entire elven population of Mirkwood but elves from all over Middle Earth were present. So Legolas was forced to carry himself in the fashion expected of a prince of Mirkwood, standing straight, head up, nodding and smiling in response to the nods, smiles, and praises of “Well done, my lord,” from the other elves milling about--when all he truly wanted was to stagger inside, shed his sweaty clothes and collapse for a few weeks. Or at least a few days until the Gathering of the Realms was over.

All the same, he knew what was expected of him, and had survived with expectations of rank all his life. He knew had done well, out-shooting, out-riding, and outrunning the delegates from all the other elf lands, even Lothlórien. That was no easy task, though he had hoped to do better. He always hoped to do better. He gave an especially cordial nod to a group of Mirkwood elves talking near the entrance to the tree-stairs that led to the training rooms, and they all smiled broadly.

“Well done, my lord.” “A magnificent performance, my lord!”

*Yes, I suppose I do rate that title now,* Legolas thought. He knew he should be pleased; it was no small thing for a prince of Mirkwood--the last son of the King and Queen of Mirkwood--to come of age as a warrior of his realm, but at the moment he was too weary to care. Legolas had been the last to leave the field, and by the time he reached the training rooms, most of the other competitors had already bathed, changed clothes and left. He was relieved by the sound of his soft footfalls on the stairs, the sound and sight outside of talking, milling elves outside cut off by the walls. Crowds made Legolas uneasy; other elves always stared at him because of his rank, and because he looked somewhat different. Most Mirkwood elves were of darker hair and skin, and all of Legolas’s siblings had these traits. Legolas had been the only one to inherit the fair hair of his parents, and the delicate features of his Lórien-bred mother, Queen Minuial. But in another strange twist, Legolas had his father’s eyes: a gray so dark they were nearly black, as unlike his mother’s pale, blue-gray eyes as could be. Consequently, he looked neither fully Silvan or fully Sindarin, and so even among his own people, Legolas seemed to draw gazes.

Beyond that, there was an oppressiveness about large numbers of people to an elf who loved the space and freedom of forest and field. And the Gathering of the Realms was the largest meeting of the elves, taking place every hundred years. While he enjoyed the chance to see and talk with lords, ladies, and friends from the other realms that he did not see often, the sheer numbers drove him to distraction. Other than this Gathering, elves only met in such masses in times of war.

At last, Legolas passed into the chamber outside the bathing rooms and fought the urge to simply drop into a chair and go to sleep. Instead, he stood stubbornly in the center of the room and began stretching the tightened muscles of his arms, shoulders, neck, and back. There would be a banquet tonight, and it would not do to move stiffly. He had been looking forward to it, but the amount of energy, mental and physical, that he had spent on preparing for the trial had left him with little concentration and less interest to devote to anything else.

Massaging a knot from his neck, Legolas sighed. He was called “zealous,” by his weapons masters and rightly so; how could he have managed to hit a “friend” target one hour into the competition? His hopes had been high, even thinking of perhaps tallying a perfect score, though it had never been done. Yes, he had still tallied the highest score in the history of the event, but…

“Well done, my lord.” Legolas jumped and turned around. It was Merilin, one of the archers who had trained at his side for as long as he could remember and like him, was now recognized as a full warrior. She grinned at his reaction and raised her hands, “Forgive me for startling you, I merely wished to offer my congratulations, my lord.”

“You needn’t call me that, Merilin,” Legolas replied wearily, but he smiled. They both knew she was teasing him. Then it occurred to him that he knew of no final scores other than his own. “Did you place?”

“Third in the running, my lord,” she replied from behind the curtain of one of the bathing rooms. “Though I fear I may have dropped one place in faults. I slipped a bow string. Faron of Imladris would move up in rank, but I do not begrudge him the third place. Candrochon was second and Tathar was fifth, and Lórien’s Eregolf was sixth. Your performance will be the talk of the banquet this evening,” she added, coming back out with a tunic that she had evidently left behind. She paused, looking puzzled, “Surely you feel no cause for dissatisfaction. All of Mirkwood is rejoicing. Your brother Prince Berensul is trying to think up the appropriate toast.”

Legolas pulled his mouth to one side. “I am satisfied…” His friend looked both amused and disgusted by his perfectionism. He smiled wryly as her expression changed to patient tolerance, “I know I performed well, I was merely disappointed in myself for striking a ‘friend’ target. It was a careless mistake.”

“Fortunately, you surpassed it in other ways, my friend,” Merilin replied firmly. “You have given Mirkwood every cause for pride today, and we will not have you melancholy for our celebrations. Be of good cheer, my lord, or I shall be forced to call on Master Langcyll to strike a smile onto your face.”

Legolas laughed, “You strike terror into my heart, Lady, so I shall be merry under duress. Until then, be off with you.” She bowed extravagantly at him and departed. Legolas went into the bathing chambers with a lighter heart. Merilin was right, of course. There would be time for criticism of his performance during exercises with the warrior captains after the Gathering.

He felt refreshed after washing the sweat from his skin, but now Legolas was feeling the weight of the morning’s efforts more than ever. Every muscle in his body sang with exhaustion, and the effort of keeping his senses so highly focused had left him lightheaded. Still passing other elves in the corridors and walkways, he dared not trudge on the walk back to his chambers, and when he came through the door of his room, his bed immediately called to him. *No,* he told himself firmly and went to dress for the evening‘s feasting. Once he had eaten, he would wake up. But to take his shoes off, he sat down on the bed, and the pillow beckoned to him once again. *I mustn’t. If I sleep now, I will forget to wake up. I cannot…I must not…perhaps just for a minute.*

 

*****


	4. Of Elven Princes and Arranged Marriages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

King Thranduil of Mirkwood moved through a throng of celebrating elves towards his family’s chambers, hoping to catch his son before he rejoined the Gathering. Just as he was about to reach the private corridor, Lady Narmeril moved to intercept him. “A word, my lord?” she asked in a formal tone. Thranduil had hoped to see Legolas and offer some praise of his own in private, but it appeared Lady Narmeril’s business could not wait. With a growing sense of dread, Thranduil suspected he knew what it was about.

They moved to one side and spoke softly, their hands clasped formally before them in a way that told all other elves in the vicinity that this was a private conversation. “I think you must be aware of what I wish to speak,” Narmeril said to him. “Our children’s participation in the Gathering Trials signifies their warrior’s coming of age, and as such…new responsibilities to the future must be made.”

Thranduil fought the urge to sigh. He had known this conversation would be taking place this year, and indeed he would be astonished if Narmeril were the only one. “Of course, you are right, my lady. What would you propose?”

Narmeril smiled in a conspiratorial fashion and nodded discreetly in the direction of several of the morning’s competitors. “As you know, my lord, your son the prince and my daughter Lady Merilin have been close friends for many years. She is an unquestioned daughter of Mirkwood and has rank to make her, er, acceptable to our people. She proved herself well today, and she is a most upright and sensible young…”

With a forced chuckle, Thranduil raised his hand to cut off the list of Merilin’s attributes, “You needn’t convince me of your daughter’s fine qualities, my lady, she is a credit to you and our people. But I am sure you will understand when I say I would not see either of our children forced hastily into a match. They have only just completed their novice training this century, and one or both of them may have doubts. They may be uncertain of their regard for each other, and I would not wish to pressure Merilin or Legolas on the subject.”

“No, indeed,” Narmeril said hastily, though she appeared to be hopping with eagerness to match Legolas to her daughter. “But, my lord, if you’ve no other objection…you would speak with Prince Legolas?”

Thranduil nodded formally, “I will discuss your suggestion with him.” He knew Narmeril had made more than a suggestion, but he firmly qualified it as such to keep her from getting ahead of herself. “Have you approached your daughter on the subject?”

“No, my lord,” Narmeril sounded slightly affronted; it would be improper to suggest marriage to a prince before the prince himself had been informed of the idea. But Thranduil would not have put it past her to try and plant the notion in Merilin’s head. “By your leave, however, I shall.”

Surreptitiously, Thranduil regarded Narmeril’s daughter, standing among a group of Mirkwood elves singing songs of “The bow of Mirkwood and the hand and eye of Legolas.” She was a handsome creature to be sure, tall with a tint of unusual red in her dark hair, bright green eyes, and fair skin. And it was true that she and Legolas had been friends for many years, yet…Thranduil simply could not bring his mind to picture his youngest son wedded, to this bride or any. Legolas still seemed so young…well, he was young, for that matter. The true date of his second coming of age was not for another thirty-four years, but it fell within the timeframe for this Gathering, so it was officially recognized today. Legolas was actually the youngest of the participants in the Gathering Trial, a fact that had made his victory all the more sweet to his people.

But, Thranduil decided firmly, that fact also made him far too young for marriage. He should probably have simply quashed the subject straight away rather than let Lady Narmeril draw any false impressions. Perhaps he needn’t trouble Legolas by raising the issue at all. With that in mind, Thranduil turned away from the royal chambers and walked back into the crowd, intending to speak to Narmeril again. Before he could reach her, Mithrandir moved to join him. “From the look of you, I fear a distasteful subject has arisen on this joyous occasion, my lord.”

Thranduil hesitated, then decided there was no reason to distrust the Maia. “Not distasteful, my friend, merely startling from a father’s point of view. Lady Narmeril has made an offer of her daughter Lady Merilin as a match for my son Legolas.”

The wizard appeared puzzled, “I would not have thought Lady Merilin lacking in worthiness after today’s competition--”

Thranduil raised his hand quickly, “You mistake me, Mithrandir, I’ve nothing against Lady Merilin. Indeed, she is a fine, upstanding Lady, more than worthy of any of my sons. My objections come on behalf of Legolas.”

“He would find her unacceptable?” Mithrandir asked in surprise. “I had the impression they were old and dear friends.”

“Oh, but they are; again I give the wrong impression,” Thranduil shook his head wryly. “My concern comes from my son’s age, or perhaps I should say, his lack of years. I believe he is yet too young to consider such a thing as marriage so soon after attaining his full mastery of the warrior’s craft. That is why I intend to decline the Lady’s offer.”

Mithrandir did not speak for a moment, his bushy grey eyebrows slightly furrowed as he digested this. Thoughtfully, he asked, “Have you spoken to Prince Legolas about this?”

“I feared the unexpectedness of the offer might alarm him,” Thranduil explained matter-of-factly. “I would not wish to sully this moment for him with this…rather embarrassing business.”

“Indeed.” Mithrandir frowned again, then said slowly, and rather carefully, “Perhaps, my lord, with respect, you should reconsider broaching the matter to the prince. Seeing as how it concerns him so personally, and as you say, he will probably find himself unready to consider marriage as well, there would be no harm in it. He might even be amused.” At Thranduil’s frown, he smiled and continued, “After all, my lord, Legolas has come of age, officially if not literally, and I suspect he would be quite pleased to be allowed to consider the matter himself, even though his opinion of the match will likely be the same as yours. It is his right, after all, to at least know that the offer has been made.”

Thranduil considered Gandalf’s words, but was doubtful. “Perhaps you do not realize that the young occasionally make impulsive or even foolish decisions, my friend. On a subject as important as marriage, it is vital that Legolas be guided.”

Mithrandir replied, “Prince Legolas seems to me a most capable and sensible young elf, my lord. Although I myself may no longer be young, I have been amongst the young for many years, and I think that in the end, though they are sometimes foolish, they can be surprisingly rational in serious matters. I have known you and your children for some time, and I have seen nothing to suggest that your youngest son could not be trusted with this choice. And there is no reason why you could not let him know of your own doubts.” Putting a hand on Thranduil’s shoulder, he said earnestly, “Consider letting him make the final decision regarding the match to Lady Merilin, my lord. Though he is young yet, Legolas is grown, and he must begin to know his own mind, and think for himself. I suspect you will be pleased with how he has turned out.” With a knowing smile, the wizard released the king and moved away into the crowd. King Thranduil stood digesting this for several minutes before turning back to the royal chambers.

Walking out of habit into his son’s chamber without knocking, Thranduil came upon Legolas fast asleep on his bed, his formal clothes laid out but not donned. A smile formed unbidden on Thranduil’s face; he had wondered what was keeping the young champion from his many admirers. Perhaps the talk could wait. Legolas appeared to have been sitting on the bed preparing to change and had simply put his head down and fallen right into dreams. He did not seem to have moved at all since then, and even for sleep, his eyes looked heavier-lidded than usual.

*He must be quite worn out,* Thranduil thought with another smile. It was just as well; the banquet would end late and it wouldn’t do for the prince to fall asleep when his presence was most definitely required. His appearance was not needed just yet, so a short rest would not hurt. He looked so childlike--Thranduil put out a hand and stopped himself from touching his son’s head. Rising quickly before his emotions got the better of him, he left the room and closed the door. He would come back and wake Legolas later when it was time for the banquet, and tell him about Narmeril’s offer.

Back among the guests, Thranduil sighed, hearing the Mirkwood elves’ song referring to Legolas as a “form in manhood,” and other similar praises. Yes, it was as Mithrandir had said. Though he was young yet, Legolas was grown. Thranduil’s youngest and last before the death of his queen. Legolas could scarcely remember her; he had only been twenty-two, still very much a child, when Minuial had gone to the Mines of Moria, attempting to salvage relations between the wood elves and the dwarves. Thranduil had waited for nearly a hundred years before telling Legolas how his mother died; she had perished along with two hundred dwarves in an attack by an unspeakable demon, awakened by the dwarves’ careless mining. The dwarves still hoped to dwell in Moria, but no elf would go there willingly. Thranduil often regretted having told Legolas the truth at all, but his eldest son and heir, Crown Prince Berensul, had insisted at the time that it was his brother’s right to know. All the same, Thranduil had once heard the servants remarking that Prince Legolas had terrible nightmares sometimes.

He broke his mind away from these difficult thoughts and surveyed the crowd again, milling in the rooms with their walls opened wide to reveal the forest, which gleamed red and gold as the sun set. A number of the competitors and their young friends had chosen this room as their meeting place, and there was scarcely anyone there within three thousand years of Thranuil’s age. He hoped he had not been too distracted while speaking with Mithrandir, lest some of these mischievous young ones overhear their conversation. Legolas did not need his victory of the day being overshadowed by gossip over who his bride might be. Especially when his father still could not bring himself to admit that Legolas was ready to take one.

***

Faron of Imladris, to his credit, had not been attempting to eavesdrop while he waited for Prince Belhador outside the royal chambers. But as they went to join their friends, they happened to pass King Thranduil and the wizard Mithrandir just as they were speaking of Legolas and Lady Narmeril, and specifically, of a “match.” There could be only one reason why Merilin’s mother and Legolas’s father would have been talking of matches on a day like today. Belhador stiffened in astonishment, and it was all Faron could do not to freeze in his tracks.

It was not as if the talk of marriage was absent from this Gathering, in fact, it was a matter of some importance every time. Participation in the archery competition was limited the elven warriors-in-training who reached a particular age during that century, and a novice could only compete once. It signaled the second coming of age, when an elven warrior was ready to completely take on the responsibilities of adulthood--meaning they could begin joining war and hunting parties as equals rather than novices…and marry. Any elves who made it through the rigorous physical and disciplinary demands of warrior training became highly eligible and much sought-after matches. And the Gathering of Realms provided the greatest opportunity in any hundred year period for the parents of noble elves in this group to meet and discuss matches along with the business of Middle Earth. There were always wagers cast (Faron had wagered a pearl on Princess Lalven and Lord Eregolf of Lothlórien), and it was a given that before the end of the Gathering, some betrothals would be announced, hopefully to the joy of all concerned.

But Legolas and Merilin?

When one thought in a practical way, the idea made sense; Merilin was a ranking Lady of Mirkwood and well-regarded and proven among their people, more than acceptable to the king’s family. Legolas was a prince and judging by his performance today, any elf lady would be glad of a marriage to him. But as a friend of them both…the idea seemed utterly bizarre. They were friends, yes, but their relationship had never gone beyond easy camaraderie in the training fields and halls of Mirkwood.

When they were a safe distance away on one of the balconies, Faron and Belhador turned to each other and exclaimed simultaneously, “Did you hear that?!”

Then they both paused and laughed helplessly. Belhador gripped the sides of his head in amused dismay, “I had entirely forgotten that Legolas would also be of marrying age now. I should have suspected there would be offers to him, but…Merilin?”

Faron had been thinking on it, and finally said, “I suspect this match was to the mind of Lady Narmeril, rather than Merilin. I cannot imagine either her or Legolas instigating such a thing. They do not seem, er…”

“Soulmates?” offered Belhador, and they began laughing again. “Poor Legolas, he will be so mortified.”

“To say nothing of Merilin,” Faron agreed. “We should place a wager on which of them says no the most swiftly.”

“It would be a tie,” Belhador laughed. “By Iluvatar, I am not ready for this. I had not even considered who might seek a match to my brother. My youngest brother, being offered marriages. These next two days are going to be frightfully amusing.”

“For shame, Brother,” Princess Limloeth had come up quietly while they spoke. “You may amused, but Legolas will not be. Poor boy. Think what an ordeal your coming of age was--how many offers had you before the end of the Gathering?”

“Four,” Belhador admitted, grimacing at the recollection. “None of them even remotely tempting. For that matter, it has been centuries since, and I still have not been tempted. Of course, I might have received more if Berensul had been married by then, but he was not. Most of the lords and ladies were attempting to foist their daughters upon him rather than me.”

“For which you are eternally grateful, I’ve no doubt,” remarked Prince Berensul, walking up to them. “Why the sudden talk of matches? Has someone received an offer?”

“Can you not guess?” demanded Limloeth, looking disgusted.

The Crown Prince of Mirkwood frowned thoughtfully, as though running all the eligible young elves through his mind. Then his eyes popped open. “No!”

His siblings and Faron burst into laughter. “It has happened, I fear, my brother,” Belhador gasped, wiping tears from his eyes.

Lowering his voice to a delightedly scandalized whisper, Berensul asked, “Legolas?” At their nods, he demanded, “Who?”

Struggling to control himself, Faron grinned, “The Lady Merilin.”

“What?! Impossible!” Berensul exclaimed.

Affecting a pose, Limloeth replied, “Why not, Brother, she has rank to recommend her, and she placed fourth in the Trial today. What objection could one have to such a marriage?”

“I object to incest, Sister, and that is how it would seem,” Berensul retorted.

“You are right, my lord,” Faron agreed. “Indeed, I think that is why I found the idea so disturbing in the first place. Legolas and Merilin have been comrades in arms all throughout their training as novices. We are taught that we are brothers in training. I do not know what possessed Lady Narmeril to suggest such a thing.” He moved away to peer back into the crowded hall and see if Merilin showed any sign that her mother had broached the subject yet.

Limloeth pulled a face, “Lady Narmeril’s skill at arranging advantageous marriages for her daughters is will known. I suspect she looked too closely at the advantages such a marriage would bring and not at the drawbacks.”

“Such as the very strong likelihood that both her daughter and Legolas will be violently opposed to the idea,” Belhador observed wryly. “What a relief that our father has at least been sensible on the subject of our marriages. He would not push Legolas into a union without making sure it was to his liking.”

“I wonder how Father will feel when Legolas finally does choose a bride,” Limloeth murmured thoughtfully. “He is his…he is the last, after all. Father will be lonely without him.”

Berensul’s expression darkened somewhat, “I fear for everyone’s sake the day our father becomes lonely.”

Just then, Faron came back. “Poor Merilin looks rather dismayed. I suspect Lady Narmeril has told her of the offer.”

“And very much like her reputation, Lady Narmeril doubtlessly made the offer without bothering to determine her daughter’s feelings on the subject,” Limloeth remarked, narrowing her eyes. “At least Legolas will be done that much courtesy.”

“Speaking of which, should he not be here by now?” Berensul observed. The group looked around and could see no sign of Legolas in the crowd. “He returned from the training rooms some time ago.”

“Perhaps we should see what is delaying him,” Belhador suggested.

“Go then, but Belhador,” Berensul waited until his younger brother looked at him, “say nothing of the match. It is the king’s prerogative to speak with him.” Belhador paused, but evidently agreed and nodded, hurrying through the crowd to the hallway leading to the royal chambers.

He entered his youngest brother’s chamber and nearly groaned; Legolas must have fallen asleep after returning from the Trial field. If the newly-recognized warrior did not make an appearance soon, Thranduil would come searching for him, and all the glory of Legolas’s victory would be soured by his embarrassment. Like all elves, Legolas had a desire for self-improvement, but the youngest of Belhador’s brothers was perfectionist to the point of being obsessive.

Belhador had taken Legolas on training exercises and hunts many times, and could count the number of times in the past two hundred years that Legolas had ever missed a shot. They stood out in his memory because they were so few, and because Legolas would rebuke himself for weeks: practicing endlessly and questioning his own skill. Belhador sometimes worried about Legolas and knew he was not the only one who did; Berensul had once confided his fear that if Legolas should ever make a serious mistake, he might fling himself from a treetop. The sons and daughters of Thranduil had all been taught that while failures should be avoided, they should be accepted and learned from when they occurred, and then it was necessary to move on. Legolas did not seem to grasp the part about moving on.

Speaking of which, if their father should arrive… “Legolas?” Belhador made his voice nonchalant as if all were perfectly normal. “You had best wake up and dress now. The banquet begins in two hours, and we must show ourselves soon.”

Legolas’s eyes focused immediately from the vacant stare of elven sleep, and he sat up in dismay, “How long have I been asleep?”

Belhador shrugged, “I’m not certain when you returned, but the sun is down.” At his brother’s expression of horror, he laughed and said, “Oh, be easy, my dear brother, everyone is so busy telling and retelling every detail of your triumph that no one noticed you had not yet arrived in person. You’re not yet late. Come, dress yourself and let’s be going.”

Legolas hustled into his formal clothes, (Mirkwood green and brown, threaded with gold in a leaf pattern), and stood in front of the mirror while Belhador helped him make himself presentable, asking nervously, “Did our father ask where I was?”

Belhador opened his mouth, but from behind them a voice said, “There was no need.” It was Thranduil.

Belhador paused from straightening his brother’s tunic and felt Legolas’s shoulder go rigid under his hand. Again, he felt the urge to groan. There was another odd thing about his youngest brother. King Thranduil had treated all his children with affection when they were very young, Legolas most of all. None could deny he had raised them with strong principles, and had been a good parent, in spite of his other shortcomings. Queen Minuial’s untimely death had not harshened Thranduil as his elder children had feared, but the opposite--he had become more protective of his youngest son. Belhador had never even heard the king raise his voice to Legolas. So he could not fathom why, out of all of them, Legolas seemed intimidated by their father. Sometimes even afraid of him.

Thranduil remained in the threshold and said, “If you please, Belhador, I would like a word with Legolas. You may rejoin our guests.”

“Yes, Father,” Belhador said obediently, with a glance at his brother’s reflection in the mirror. Legolas looked as though he expected Thranduil to come down on him like a raging orc, though the king never overreacted in such a fashion--at least not toward Legolas. He knew it would do no good to speak to his brother with Thranduil waiting, so he gave his father a smooth bow and departed the room, praying this ridiculously minor incident would not put a damper upon the entire evening.

***

Thranduil spoke briskly and casually, as he had planned to bring up the distasteful subject, “I was glad you had the chance to rest before the evening. The banquet will doubtlessly run long , and I had feared you would be tired from this morning. I was just coming to wake you.”

He sensed his son’s intense relief at not being chided for sleeping, and knew he was about to alarm him again, but this conversation could not wait much longer. Narmeril would doubtless want to know what reply Legolas had made before the evening was over. Remembering what Mithrandir had advised, he kept his voice neutral, “My son, before we go out, I must speak with you concerning a matter of some importance.”

Legolas stopped fiddling with his tunic and turned to face his father, giving him his complete attention. Thranduil closed the door behind him and took a deep breath, “You are aware, of course, Legolas, that at this Gathering, you have shown yourself not only ready for full adulthood and battle, but also for marriage.” Legolas blinked--the idea had obviously been an afterthought to this event. Thranduil said blandly, “I have already been approached by the Lady Narmeril about the possibility of a match between you and her daughter, the Lady Merilin.”

If there was one thing that would serve Legolas well in his royal duties as a Prince of Mirkwood, it was his composure. But at this revelation, all composure (or perhaps merely the use of his legs) deserted him. He made no vocal sound, but simply sat down on the edge of his bed with a thud, looking utterly thunderstruck. He did not speak for a moment, simply staring into space, then looked up at his father with wide eyes and blurted, “What?!”

“Lady Narmeril has asked me to speak with you about a marriage to her daughter Merilin,” Thranduil repeated. The king of Mirkwood was amused and rather pleased by the emotions he saw running across his son’s face. They ranged from disbelief to confusion to speculation to dismay and then finally settled upon something akin to utter horror. Thranduil could no longer restrain himself and allowed some mild chuckling to escape, “May I assume from your expression that you are not interested?”

“I…I…”Legolas shook his head and stammered, “I have nothing against the Lady Merilin, Father, and I should not wish to affront her. We are friends, yes, but…”

“You are not ready for marriage?” Thranduil prompted instinctively.

Legolas immediately replied, “I think perhaps I am not, Father, although I am honored by Lady Narmeril’s request.”

Thranduil smiled; Legolas had said exactly what the king had hoped he would say. It was as Thranduil had thought. Legolas was too young to marry. “Well then, that is settled. I shall inform Lady Narmeril of your decline.”

“Ah--” Legolas looked anxious. “Father, when you speak to her, please tell her that I hold Lady Merilin in the highest esteem, and I do not wish her to believe that I consider her daughter unworthy.”

“Of course, my son, I shall tell her this. I am pleased that you did not rush into such a decision. But,” Thranduil had debated mentioning this next fact, but decided Legolas would probably learn the hard way if he did not, “this is unlikely to be the last offer you receive this Gathering.” He crushed a laugh at his son’s expression of renewed horror. “However, I shall discreetly make it known that the idea of marriage in general is not to your liking at this time, rather than suggest you have any particular objection to the ladies who will doubtlessly be asking for your hand.”

Legolas nodded, “Thank you, Father.”

“Well, then. Shall we?” As Legolas followed his father out the door, Thranduil smiled to himself. It was a relief that the matter had been resolved so quickly, and indeed, it was as the king had hoped; Legolas was glad to have had the decision made for him.

*****


	5. Girls, Girls, Girls!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

When Legolas entered the rooms outside the banquet hall where the guests were gathered, he was immediately set upon from all sides by well-wishers and admirers. Managing to remember his manners and graciously thank the congratulators, Legolas looked around the room and inadvertently met Merilin’s gaze.

From another part of the room, Berensul had to stifle a laugh and nudged Belhador when he saw Legolas look at Merilin. “My dear brother, I suspect our father has broached the subject of marriage. Look how they blush.”

Indeed, Legolas and Merilin appeared to have assessed each other and themselves in a different light, and it was difficult to say which of the two looked the most alarmed. Legolas appeared quite disturbed, and Merilin had turned positively green. Now they were facing anywhere but each other, and each was moving to add distance between them. A chuckle from nearby let the princes know that two of the other competitors, Faron of Imladris and Tathar of Mirkwood, had seen the nonverbal exchange. “They seem a love meant to be, do they not?” snickered Tathar.

“Contain your jests in front of them, my friend,” Belhador cautioned. “I fear they both have been frightened out of their wits by this strange new foe.”

“The most deathly dangerous foe of all,” agreed Berensul, smiling as his wife, the Crown Princess Eirien, moved to join them.

Belhador and the archers bowed to the crown prince’s lady, and she smiled at them before commenting, “So the offer is made then. I assume the king goes now to tell the Lady Narmeril that Legolas has refused?”

“That would seem likely,” Belhador agreed. “It may not be necessary to tell him of Lady Merilin’s feelings at all. I suspect Legolas was less than enthusiastic. See, he goes now to speak to Lady Narmeril. They have refused.”

The friends of Legolas and Merilin watched, struggling to stifle their giggles, at the pantomime that played out between King Thranduil and Lady Narmeril. Lady Merilin’s mother had been greatly successful at arranging marriages for Merilin’s three elder sisters, and this was the first time she had been refused. With a socially correct smile and bow following the exchange with the elven king, Narmeril turned on her heel and walked from the hall, leaving an aroma of affronted ego in her wake. King Thranduil looked as though he were trying to contain his amusement. He turned to speak to Mithrandir again, apparently recounting the discussion of the aborted match. Mithrandir did not appear quite so amused.

“Even so, I fear this will not be the last such horror our dear brother will face this Gathering,” Princess Limloeth joined the group. “Already there is talk that Lady Hísimë and Lord Ezeloron wish to speak to our father about their daughters and Legolas. Poor boy. I hope he finds time to enjoy himself.”

Eirien had not been listening just then. She could hear Queen Elenath of Lindon speaking to her daughter, Princess Lalven, just behind them. “Prince Legolas has refused Lady Merilin, my daughter. Our opportunity remains.”

“But Mother, he did not object to Merilin specifically, but to marriage itself. How am I to sway him?” Lalven asked, sounding dismayed.

“If he should develop a liking for a particular lady, my dear, perhaps the thought of marriage itself will be more to his liking. Therefore, I suggest you endeavor to make yourself as likeable to him as possible.”

Eirien forced herself to stop eavesdropping and turned back to her companions with a barely-suppressed smile. *Poor Legolas. Merilin was only the beginning.*

***

As his siblings and friends looked on, Legolas continued to field congratulations and admirations from elves by the dozens. Many of them were maidens. Belhador discreetly nudged Tathar, Legolas’s friend and fellow archer. “Should we rescue him, do you think? He begins to look uncomfortable.”

“Let him be,” Berensul replied firmly. “Legolas is uncomfortable any time that he becomes the center of attention. He is a prince of Mirkwood. He shall have to learn to face his people sometime. He will be fine.”

Tathar pulled his mouth to one side, “As you wish, my lord.”

On the other side of the room, it was all Legolas could do to make socially correct and somewhat graceful responses to his many admirers. He had never faced such a large group of people all trying to speak to him before. It was overwhelming.

“It was such an impressive performance, my lord.” “You are the finest archer Mirkwood has ever had, my lord.” “The finest in Middle Earth!” “You do us all such an honor, my lord!” “We are so proud, my lord, so proud!” “Very well done, my lord!”

As Legolas feared he was beginning to blush, King Thranduil at last came to his rescue. “Forgive me, Ladies, Prince Legolas has other well-wishers to meet.” Feeling intensely relieved, Legolas followed his father to join Mithrandir and Lord Elrond.

Legolas was startled when both the wizard and the Lord of Rivendell bowed to him. “My congratulations, Prince Legolas,” Lord Elrond declared. “I have never seen a finer performance.”

“Nor I, my lord,” Mithrandir agreed, smiling at him. “Mirkwood has every cause for pride today.”

“My thanks,” Legolas said to them both. “On behalf of my comrades as well. I believe the other candidates of Mirkwood deserve these praises as much as I. Never has our delegation placed so highly.”

“Quite true, my lord,” the wizard agreed. “All four of Mirkwood’s delegates in the top placings. Quite an honor indeed. We should not forget to extend our praises to Langcyll, your master.”

Legolas felt himself relaxing. Mithrandir, for some strange reason, was very easy to speak to. He felt he did not have to consciously be on his guard or watch his words. “I should not wish to overlook Langcyll. This victory is as much his as it is ours and Mirkwood’s.”

“Well said, young Legolas,” Elrond remarked. Lord Elrond, on the other hand, was so awe-inspiring that Legolas felt like an awkward child whenever he spoke to him.

At that moment, Queen Elenath of Lindon joined the group. “Well done, Prince Legolas. I am pleased to see you basking in the glory of today’s triumph.”

Mithrandir chuckled, “Indeed, you are mistaken, my lady. Prince Legolas has been the soul of modesty in spite of his grand feats.”

“I am very pleased to hear it. Ah, Lalven, there you are,” the elven queen gestured imperiously for Princess Lalven to join the group. “You have not yet congratulated the prince.” For an elf, Elenath was not very subtle. Few missed the unspoken message from the queen to her daughter. Legolas felt heat rushing to his face again and though he smiled amiably, he deeply desired to groan.

Princess Lalven of Lindon had her attributes, it could not be denied. She was an attractive elf, with thick, heavy black hair that flowed all about her, and deep blue eyes set in her pale, delicately-boned face. She was sometimes compared in looks to the Lady Arwen. She came from one of the highest families of western elves, and had also competed in the morning’s Trial, though she had not placed very high.

On the other hand, especially compared to Arwen, Lalven’s features seemed rather vacant, lacking any sort of depth or understanding behind her eyes, and when one actually had a conversation with her…how to put it politely…she was rather insipid. “My congratulations, my lord,” Lalven said, batting her eyes.

Perhaps it was merely hunger, but Legolas felt a small twinge of nausea. Nevertheless, he forced himself to smile warmly and reply graciously, “My thanks, my lady.” He did not see Mithrandir discreetly cover his mouth with one hand.

***

Across the room, Faron of Imladris had joined Tathar, Candrochon, and the royal children of Mirkwood in conversation when he saw what transpired between Legolas, Queen Elenath, and Princess Lalven. “Ai!” he groaned in a half-whisper, flicking his head in their direction.

Tathar turned to look, then quickly had to turn back to hide his laughter. “There’s a pearl you owe me, Faron.”

Faron shook his head in amused dismay, “I was certain that it would be Eregolf!”

“I would not wish Lalven on anyone,” Princess Limloeth remarked, trying in vain not to giggle. “I suspect you would have been right, Faron, were it not for outcome of the Trial. I fear my brother’s rather spectacular victory has altered a great many plans. Belhador remains unmarried, but today’s events have made Legolas the prime choice. Poor thing. First Merilin, now Lalven.”

Berensul sighed heavily, “On second thought, perhaps we should rescue him. Another minute and Queen Elenath will broach the idea of making Lalven his dinner partner, and I would not see my brother saddled with that tedious creature all evening. He deserves to enjoy himself.”

“Than you had best hurry,” Belhador urged him.

Berensul swiftly made his way through the crowd and as his friends looked on, drew Legolas away from from the hovering queen and princess. Queen Elenath was visibly searching for a means of detaining him, but fortunately for Legolas, the queen was as unimaginative as her daughter. At his eldest brother’s side, the prince made his escape with clear relief.

“Thank the Valar,” Belhador began, but Limloeth caught his arm and snickered.

“Do not be so hasty, brother. It is not yet over. See? They have escaped one only to be set upon by another,” Limloeth was correct. Another noble elf, this one of Lorien, was bearing down on Legolas and Berensul with his daughter in tow, as the friends struggled to stifle their laughter.

Eirien asked hastily, “Did Legolas mention any preference of whom he would like to sit the banquet with?”

Candrochon frowned, “I do not believe so, Lady. Merilin would likely have been his partner, but under these new circumstances, they have doubtlessly changed their minds.”

“Then perhaps, Limloeth, if you’re not otherwise engaged…”

“My dear sister, you are brilliant. I at least can carry on an intelligent conversation,” Limloeth remarked, with some disdain for the noble maiden now offering her congratulations (among other things) to Legolas.

“Go swiftly then, Lady, before he is ensnared,” hissed Candrochon frantically. “The banquet will begin soon, and I see no less than three other ladies lurking about waiting for their turn.”

Limloeth hurried to join her brothers, and Belhador shook his head helplessly. “Is anyone keeping a tally?”

Snickering, Tathar discreetly counted on his fingers, “Lady Merilin, Princess Lalven, now Lady Emlin. And I see Lady Hatholiel, Lady Lendael, and Lady Himiel searching for the proper opening.”

Eirien looked astonished. “Whatever possesses these ladies or their parents to set their caps upon a prince they’ve yet to be introduced to?”

“Indeed, I know not, my lady, but we have all born it,” Belhador replied, grimacing. “I knew none of the ladies who asked for my hand at my second coming of age.” As they watched, Berensul and Legolas managed to detach themselves from Lord Eretoss and his daughter Lady Emlin, only to have Lady Lendael move in for her turn.

“Ai, this shall be unpleasant,” murmured Candrochon.

Fortunately, just as Legolas appeared to be contemplating leaping from the balcony, Limloeth reached them at last, smoothly linking her arm with her younger brother’s. Another singularly amusing pantomime followed of Lady Lendael’s attempts to persuade Legolas to sit with her at the banquet (without asking him directly.) Alas, the attempt failed, and Limloeth briskly escorted Legolas and Berensul back to the rest of the group.

“Well met, my lord!” Tathar said brightly. Legolas shot him a look that would freeze water in the Cracks of Doom.

From the doorway to the banquet hall, a muted chime sounded. Limloeth, her hand still on her brother‘s arm, grinned broadly, “Ah, time to go in.”

***

Gandalf the Grey was torn between laughter and outrage on Legolas’s behalf as he saw the young prince being shamelessly chased by noble elves and their daughters. Even as he escorted his elder sister Limloeth into the banquet hall, King Thranduil’s youngest son was forced to fend off overtures by noble elven maidens.

“Poor lad,” a voice remarked beside him.

Gandalf turned to see Lord Elrond also watching the prince’s struggle to escape the ladies. The wizard smiled. “I fear this was an inevitable consequence of such a great victory. As the most celebrated archer in Middle Earth, Legolas has also become the most sought-after husband.”

Elrond nodded, wincing slightly as a particularly bubbly maiden bounced up to Legolas and complained melodramatically that she had no partner for dinner. “Fortunately, he must only endure this for two more days. By the end of the Gathering, most of these ladies will be forced to return to their own realms. The prince and his family seem to have the situation in hand. The matter of Lady Merilin was brought to a swift close.”

*But not by Legolas, perhaps,* the thought came unbidden into Gandalf’s mind and he glanced at the front of the main table as they entered the hall. King Thranduil was at the head of the table, speaking to Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. The king beckoned for Legolas and Limloeth to take the second seats on his left, across from Celeborn and Galadriel, and they escaped Legolas’s pursuers.

The banquet of the Gathering of the Realms was a masterpiece: the food superb, the music lovely, and many interesting and important conversations took place. Legolas appeared both delighted and mortified by the songs sung about him. Fortunately, the talk of matches was absent--discussing marriages in this setting like some sort of diplomatic contract would be in poor taste, for which Gandalf was very thankful.

Much praise was given to Prince Legolas that evening: songs were sung, toasts made, and every elf who had witnessed the competition seemed to have a tale of some remarkable feat they had seen Legolas perform during the event. Langcyll, the pragmatic warrior captain and head novice master of Mirkwood, surprised the assembly by rising to declare that Legolas had been the finest novice he had ever trained, and calling upon all novice warriors to emulate his dedication and, more important, his caution. None in the room were more stunned than Legolas (except perhaps Langcyll himself, for singling out a warrior for such praise was very unlike him.)

To any other, Thranduil’s expression throughout all this was very much controlled, that of a king pleased by a warrior’s performance--with only a hint of fatherly pride. But Gandalf saw through it. From the Maia’s gaze, there was no hiding the possessiveness of Thranduil’s behavior toward his youngest son. The wizard could see a complicated and painful array of emotions, including pride, apprehension, concern, and--in what could prove a blessing and curse to all concerned--a desperate, all-encompassing love.

*This elven king possesses many vices, but few weaknesses,* Gandalf thought. *Yet there sits the deepest of them all. A child is always a weakness to the parent, but seldom to such a degree as this. He has come of age, yet still his father guards him.*

In the climax of the banquet, the Lady Galadriel placed a gold medal around Legolas’s neck, etched with the emblems of all the Elven realms, of the archers, and the year, to commemorate his victory. The Mirkwood elves were overjoyed, giving their prince a thunderous ovation.

Applauding with the rest, Gandalf considered the way that the king had handled the matter of his son’s marriage, and the fashion that he seemed to handle all of Legolas’s affairs. *For now at least, young Legolas is content, but that will soon change as his comrades take up their newfound rights and responsibilities. He shall desire to make his own decisions and find his own way in life. What will Thranduil do then?*

It was a heavy question. For an elven king as powerful as Thranduil to possess such a vulnerability had many ramifications. Especially when it was only a matter of time before this weakness was driven into the open by his son’s desire for freedom. It seemed more and more certain that the destiny of Legolas of Mirkwood would have a great impact on the course of the future: of his kindred, his realm, and perhaps all Middle Earth.

***

As his victory in the Gathering Trial had demonstrated, the senses of Legolas were particularly keen, even by elven standards. In the two days following the Trial, he had many occasions to be thankful for them.

For when a noble maiden was in the vicinity, the few short seconds between the time that his senses detected her and hers would detect him were all he needed to take cover. Although Legolas had always been particularly good at jumping straight into trees without making a sound, Langcyll would be pleased by how much practice the champion of Mirkwood was getting.

Midmorning, the day after the banquet, found Legolas perched in a tree, motionless and tense as if a pack of orcs were passing below. He had hoped to escape the attentions of the ladies by wandering off into the woods (on one of the rare occasions during the Gathering when his presence was not absolutely required) but alas, they followed him everywhere. Even now, he watched from his hiding place as Princess Lalven attempted to determine where he had gone. Lalven was a fair to decent tracker, but Legolas doubted she would be able to find him. A fact for which he was very well pleased.

Lalven wandered away and Legolas climbed down, feeling exasperated. It was as he had feared; trying to find any time to himself during the next two days would be an exercise in futility. He suspected that in the ten minutes since he had left the palace, half the unmarried elven maidens at the Gathering had elected to take a stroll. Yet on the other hand, perhaps he could retreat back into the palace and leave them to explore the woods in search of him. With that in mind, he jumped back up and stealthily made his way over the heads of the searching ladies without once being seen.

He climbed up a tree close to the palace and gained the balcony of his chambers via another sturdy limb. Walking through the open balcony doors, he came upon someone in his room and all but jumped out of his skin. It was Tathar. He blinked at his friend’s reaction and Legolas said absently, “Oh, it’s you.”

Tathar grinned, and Legolas felt still more aggrieved. As if the constant attentions of every eligible elf maid from here to the Grey Havens were not enough, the amusement of his friends at his expense only served as salt in the wound. “What do you want?” he demanded brusquely, and regretted it at once. Tathar looked hurt, and Legolas sighed. “Forgive me. I was startled.”

Tathar at least seemed repentant, and said, “Since every unmarried maiden in Mirkwood is currently scouring the forest, I suspected I would find you within the palace.” He smiled more sympathetically, “The Council of the Realms is to take place at sunset tonight. Your presence will be expected, my lord.”

Legolas sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, too frustrated to bother with royal appearances in the company of his closest friend. “For pity’s sake, do not call me that. I prefer to think that at least my comrades in arms know my own name. The ladies ‘lord’ me enough as it is.”

Tathar asked thoughtfully, “Have you spoken to Merilin since…last night?”

“No,” Legolas sighed and rubbed his brows. “She seems the only one with the good sense not to desire a marriage to me. Would that she had been spared the embarrassment. At least until the Gathering has ended, I will not give rise to gossip by speaking to her.”

“You did not consider her unworthy--” Tathar began, looking shocked.

Legolas swiftly shook his head, “On the contrary, my friend. Were I inclined to marry, I might have given Merilin’s--or rather, Lady Narmeril’s suggestion serious thought. But I am not, and she does not desire me.” He laughed wryly, “When the Gathering is over, I will make certain that she knows I hold her in the highest esteem. But at the moment, she flees in the opposite direction when she sees me--on those occasions when I do not have the opportunity to escape first.”

Tathar laughed again, “How terribly traumatic.” At Legolas’s glare, he raised his hands defensively, “Peace, my friend, you said yourself you did not wish me to change my behavior towards you. Therefore I must remember to tease you regularly.”

Legolas was at last able to grin. “Tell me, my friend, had you any offers of betrothal?” At Tathar’s blush, he sprang to his feet. “What is this? You would permit me to go through this trial alone? Out with it; who asked for you?”

Tathar wrinkled his nose, and Legolas grinned harder, folding his arms expectantly. “Gaeloth, Mathorion’s daughter.”

In a most undignified fashion, Legolas was forced to clap both hands over his mouth to prevent a howl of laughter. Tathar looked sheepish as Legolas bent over, shaking with silent hysterics. When at last he regained some degree of control, he wiped tears from his eyes and hissed, “That…that…troll of an elf maid?” Tathar began to laugh as well and nodded. “Pray tell, who masterminded that brilliant plan? Gaeloth despises everyone, including her own kindred. I cannot imagine her asking for the hand of anyone save an orc!”

“I suspect it was Mathorion’s idea. He would do better to marry her to a dwarf, if any would have her. But do not crow over me quite so loud, my lord; he asked Candrochon first.” At that revelation, Legolas laughed harder still, but his mirth was swiftly ended by a knock upon the door.

“My lord? Are you at home?”

Legolas froze, and Tathar turned in alarm toward the door. In horror, Legolas clapped his hands over the sides of his head and mouthed frantically: (Lalven!)

Tathar nodded, then mouthed back. (What now?)

(I’m not at home!) Legolas mouthed urgently, vigorously shaking his head, but their earlier merriment had given them away.

“I hear nothing, Mother,” they heard Lalven say.

“There were sounds from within; he must be here,” Queen Elenath’s voice replied. Legolas leaned against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut as though facing an imminent doom. As the queen of Lindon began rapping on the door, he began mouthing a prayer. “Prince Legolas? I am certain I heard voices!”

Tathar leaned over and shook Legolas by the shoulder, gesturing at the balcony window. Hastily, they slipped out and closed it noiselessly behind them. They were breathing a sigh of relief when a feminine wail from a nearby tree made them both jump, “Oh, Prince Legolas, I am stuck and the branch is breaking!”

Having no choice but to go to Lady Emlin’s aid, Legolas briefly considered jumping from the treetop himself. Or perhaps helping the branch to break.

***

Belhador was about to depart his chamber for the Council of the Realms when he heard someone sprinting down the hallway. Alarmed, he reached for the knife hanging from his belt when he realized it was Legolas; the frantic strides were so unlike his placid youngest brother that Belhador had not recognized him. Coming around the corner, Legolas all but plowed into Belhador. Rocking back on his heels, Belhador’s brother stammered, “Forgive me, I--” he looked frantically over his shoulder.

Belhador chuckled, “Who is it this time?”

“Lady Lendael!” Legolas whispered, looking anguished. Belhador heard the sound of two elf ladies coming into the hall that housed the royal chambers and sighed--Lendael must have her mother with her. Hastily, he motioned Legolas into his own room and closed the door behind them. “Thank you,” Legolas sighed softly, sinking into a chair with his face in his hands.

From outside, they heard Lady Faelwest musing, “Now wherever could he have gone?”

Quashing an urge to laugh, Belhador gestured silently for Legolas to remain where he was, and walked casually into the corridor. “Ladies, what may I do for you?”

“Ah, Prince Belhador, I…we were seeking your brother Prince Legolas. Would you happen to know where he might have gone?” Lady Faelwest asked coyly, her hand on her daughter Lendael’s shoulder.

Smoothly, Belhador shook his head. “I know not, Lady. The Council of the Realms begins in an hour; my brother may have gone already. If so, I fear you shall be forced to wait until it is over to speak with him.”

With a thin smile that did little to hide her displeasure, the disappointed noble departed. Belhador returned to his room and could no longer contain himself--Legolas looked so forlorn. When he began to laugh, Legolas moaned, “I suppose I must be pleased to see at least someone amused.”

Struggling to bring his laughter under control, Belhador replied, “Oh, calm yourself, Brother. It will not last much longer. Berensul is Crown Prince, and survived his second coming of age and four Gatherings after before taking a bride. He had easily as many offers as you.” *Almost as many,* he mentally corrected himself, but there was no need to inform Legolas of the exact tally. His brother was traumatized enough. “But now, we must go to the Council. And fear not; none will dare broach the subject of marriage in such a setting. Once there, you shall be safe.”

“At least until the Council is over,” Legolas sighed, but rose.

But reaching the hall where the Council would meet soon proved easier said than done. No sooner had they left the royal chambers than Belhador and Legolas were surrounded by giggling, fluttering young maidens, all of whom practically ignored Belhador with their eyes upon the greater prize.

“We missed you at the riverside, this morning, my lord!” one said with a pout.

“The first novices raced their horses, but none have as fine a seat as you upon your noble mount!” another cooed.

“Do you go now to the Council of the Realms? How exciting!” one squealed.

“I do hope we shall see you at dinner this evening, my lord!” another maiden gushed.

Still another especially forward maiden yanked the collar of her gown to one side, exposing her bare shoulder, and wailed, “Look, my lord, I’ve been stung!”

“Come, Legolas, we shall be late,” Belhador declared loudly, and although they permitted them to pass, the ladies did not desist. They trailed behind the princes in a giggling entourage.

“Prince Belhador, why is your brother so cold?”

“What do you suppose the Lords will discuss tonight?”

“The first departures are tomorrow morning! What SHALL they do without us?”

The princes walked as swiftly as they could, and Belhador suspected Legolas would have broken into a run were it not for Belhador’s hand upon his arm. At last, they entered the hall where the Council was to begin, and closed the doors upon the chattering she-elves with audible sighs of relief. Turning to the room, they found most of the participants had already assembled; the maidens had so impeded their progress. Lord Elrond was visibly struggling to suppress his amusement. “Well met, Prince Belhador, Prince Legolas. I trust your…journey was uneventful?”

Belhador was also forced to stifle a laugh, “Not at all, my lord.” Legolas looked as though he desired to thud his head against the wall.

*****


	6. Rights and Privileges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

It was the first time Legolas had attended the Great Council of the Realms--*and the final event of the Gathering, thank the Valar!*--and although he had little to say, he listened with great interest. Yet some of the things he heard troubled him.

“The shadow over this realm grows evermore threatening,” King Thranduil was saying. “We know not from whence it comes, nor how to drive it away. But the evil creatures of Mordor show a sudden attraction to Mirkwood, it cannot be denied.”

Mithrandir, permitted always to attend the Council as an Istar, furrowed his bushy eyebrows, “That this shadow is more powerful than the elves and the creatures of Sauron are attracted to it cannot be a coincidence.”

“You fear the worst, my friend?” Lord Elrond asked.

“I do, my lord. Though the causes are yet uncertain, I fear the Enemy may be returning to strength somehow. Somewhere.” Legolas had never seen the wizard look so troubled. Nor his father, nor any of the other elven lords, for that matter.

But as always, Lady Galadriel bade them not to despair, “Though it is true that the Enemy’s spirit endured, he remains weak at best. For the time of this Gathering, the power of our joy alone forced the shadow back, as it has before when we have gathered here. And we possess other powers the Enemy has not and cannot touch.”

Legolas was uncertain of what she meant by that, but Mithrandir said delicately, “But if the Enemy should find…a source of power of his own, my lady? The elves must be especially on their guard. All care must be taken to prevent the shadow from growing, or all of Middle Earth could be in grave danger.”

“Wise words, as always, elf-friend,” Lord Celeborn said with a smile. “Be sure the elves shall heed them. In somewhat less earth-shattering business, what news of the dwarves, King Thranduil?”

Thranduil gave a wry smile, “The dwarves continue in their search for treasures in the same fashion as ever, my lord. There is little contact between the elves of my realm and them. Many regret the loss of the trade and their craftsmanship, but I for one am pleased not to have dealings with them.”

Looking somewhat uncomfortable, Lord Elrond said slowly, “Being closer to the mountains, Rivendell sees a little more of the dwarves. I…rumors had reached me some time ago concerning…excesses by the lords of Mirkwood in their dealings with the dwarves.”

Legolas stiffened in shock in his seat at hearing his father so affronted. He knew better than to protest (it was Thranduil’s prerogative) but he glanced quickly at his brothers and sister. To his still-greater astonishment, rather than looking at Elrond to explain such an accusation, his elder siblings were also gazing at Thranduil as though waiting for him to defend himself. Nor did Thranduil appear affronted or even surprised by Elrond’s words. The King lifted his chin and said calmly, “It has been some time since I or any of my people dealt with the dwarves. But as to the manner of end of those dealings…attempting to wrangle with a lord of Mirkwood carries just consequences. I am not to blame for the dwarves’ lack of wisdom.”

***

The Great Council of the Realms had thrown many unexpected and alarming matters into the open…as it always did. Gandalf the Grey could not recall a time when he had left a Council without feeling deeply troubled by some development or another--and today was no exception. Many troubles seemed to have come to rest within Mirkwood’s borders; the mysterious shadow increasingly seemed explainable by only one terrifying cause. And although the elves seemed the race best prepared and qualified to take on such a threat…of all the elven lords, King Thranduil would not be the one Gandalf would choose to have such sensitive matters rest upon his realm.

Another, less catastrophic concern had arisen during the Council that seemed for the moment a matter of curiosity rather than anxiety. Gandalf had been surprised by young Prince Legolas’s reaction to the discussion of King Thranduil’s dealings with the dwarves. What puzzled Gandalf was that Thranduil’s reputation for…how to put it…excess was no secret in any of the elven realms. It was a great pity. Thranduil been a wise leader for a very long time, but the death of Queen Minuial had had both close and far-reaching consequences.

Though it was his first time attending the Council, it did seem odd that Legolas had apparently not expected Elrond’s habitual inquiry into the relations between Thranduil and the dwarves. The young prince had not seemed to know anything of the situation at all. Gandalf was perishing to find an explanation for this ignorance, but Thranduil was most certainly not the one to ask. Perhaps…

It took Gandalf nearly an hour of patient hovering before he managed to catch the Crown Prince Berensul alone. “A word, my lord?” he asked casually.

Berensul smiled, “Certainly, Mithrandir.” They walked some distance into the woods where they could speak in private. “What can I do for you?”

Carefully, Gandalf said, “I noticed Prince Legolas seemed rather…dismayed during the discussion of the failing relations between the elves and the dwarves. Has he a dwarf friend who has suffered?”

While fair Legolas could easily be mistaken for an elf of Lórien, Prince Berensul was every inch his father’s son in appearances, the only difference being his dark hair. And the emotions that flashed across the elf’s face made him resemble Thranduil all the more. Gandalf saw frustration, worry, sorrow, anger, and most alarmingly, a harsh scorn that was directed at neither Legolas nor the dwarves. In a biting tone, the crown prince replied, “Legolas has never seen a dwarf, let alone had the opportunity to develop a friendship with one.”

Gandalf had been prepared to hear that Legolas had been somewhat insulated from the true extent of his father’s shortcomings, but this news brought him up short. “He has never met a dwarf? But dwarves continue to travel around the borders of Mirkwood regularly, and they are often in Imladris and on the roads about Lórien--”

“Mithrandir. Legolas has never left Mirkwood.” Berensul’s tone was utterly flat, telling Gandalf all too clearly what the Crown Prince of Mirkwood thought of this fact. “It is not exactly a restriction…Legolas has never pressed a request to go beyond our borders, or even into the deep woods.”

All the veils were falling away, so Gandalf came straight out with it, “This is the king’s instigation?”

The scorn returned to Berensul’s voice, “Legolas does nothing that is not our father’s instigation.” Then he sighed, sounding repentant, “The king means well. I believe he wishes only to protect my brother, but…” Berensul shook his head, making his disagreement with such upbringing plain.

Gandalf frowned. “Forgive me for asking, my lord. What will happen now that Legolas is of age? He is a trained and highly accomplished warrior. It is generally expected that he will begin to join war parties, patrols, and hunts of his own choosing.”

Berensul looked deeply worried. “I do not know. Legolas has not broached the subject. He rarely asks my father for anything. But you are right; the time is coming, and soon, when my brother will assert himself. When he does…I do not know how the king will react.”

***

Legolas was cornered. Queen Elenath was coming out onto the balcony where he was standing alone, and his only escape would be to climb over the rail--unfortunately there was a large party of elves milling on the ground who would witness his undignified escape. Desperate as he was, he would not disgrace his father. The queen’s footsteps approached from behind, and taking a deep breath, Legolas turned and bowed to her. “My lady. What may I do for you?”

Queen Elenath’s expression was like that of a predator having trapped her prey and now moved in for the kill. “My lord, you have made yourself scarce today.”

Relieved that the setting sun hid his blush, Legolas lied, “I had much to think about before the Council, my lady. This was the first time I had the honor of attending.”

The queen chuckled. “Ah, to be young and eager again. I scarcely remember my second coming of age. But it is a comfort to see it experienced by my daughter the Princess Lalven.”

Legolas braced himself, *Here it comes…*

***

King Thranduil was on his way to the banquet hall to see that the preparations for yet another feast were in hand when he noticed Mithrandir, Berensul, Belhador, and Limloeth congregated near the door of one of the large open verandas. They seemed to be watching something transpire out on the balcony. “Whatever are you doing?” he asked in amusement, moving to join them.

Coming to meet him halfway, Mithrandir’s amused reply prevented Thranduil from noticing his children’s alarm and dismay at his arrival. “I fear Queen Elenath has trapped Prince Legolas, my lord. He can no longer evade her offer of Princess Lalven.” Stunned, Thranduil started swiftly past him, but the wizard laughed and caught his arm, “Do not fear, my lord, Legolas will handle it.”

Protesting, Thranduil tried to pull away, “She should not be permitted to pressure him in this manner. He will not know how to refuse her.”

Mithrandir smiled, guiding the king toward the door, “I think, my lord, young as he is, Legolas will surprise you.” He gestured to the silhouettes against the light of the sunset.

***

“And so, my lord, for those reasons, I think that you and my daughter would be a very fine match. Indeed, your prospects of happiness together seem very great, you must agree,” Queen Elenath concluded, looking very pleased with herself.

Legolas had remained politely attentive--in appearance at least. Inwardly, his mind cried, *How shall I get out of this?!* He knew he must; marrying Lalven was entirely out of the question, but for reasons Legolas would never dream of telling her mother. *Your daughter bores me to tears? No, that will never do. I could lie and say I love another, but that would give rise to more speculation. By Iluvatar--I do not WANT to marry!*

He must give an answer, he knew. And now. Collecting his scattered thoughts, he lifted his chin and met Queen Elenath’s expectant eyes. “You do me a great honor with your offer, my lady, and I thank you. And although I--have a high regard for Princess Lalven, I fear I must decline.” Without giving Elenath a chance to react, he hurried on, “I have decided that I am not prepared to consider marriage just yet, no matter how…respectable the lady. Please do not take my refusal as a slight to your most honorable daughter, my lady. I am simply not inclined to marry at this time.”

Elenath had faltered while digesting this. *Quickly! Escape now!* Legolas bowed a bit stiffly, then walked back into the palace, feeling a slight hysterical urge to giggle. *I cannot believe I managed such a thing. At least there is one down, only a few dozen remaining who must be discouraged.*

***

Legolas’s family managed to step out of sight as he passed back through the doors and went back to his room. When he had gone, and Queen Elenath had followed--scratching her head as though she could not fathom why Prince Legolas had not found her daughter irresistible--they all began to speak at once.

“There, Father!” Princess Limloeth cried, clapping her hands. “Was he not the soul of dignity? Let none claim our brother has not come gracefully of age!”

Berensul and Belhador were grinning like fools, “I could not have handled her better myself. Quiet our brother may be, but he has a quick mind.”

“And none can claim that mind is not his own,” Gandalf agreed, smiling at the king.

Thranduil looked thoughtful, somber, but rather apprehensive. “Legolas did manage the situation far better than I had expected.” Gandalf noted with apprehension of his own that the king did not seem entirely pleased by this. With his jaw set tightly, the king of Mirkwood nodded to Gandalf and his other children, and departed, walking rather stiffly.

Gandalf turned to see anxiety vivid on the faces of Legolas’s siblings. “How could he not be pleased at how fine Legolas is turning out?” Limloeth asked in dismay.

Berensul all but threw up his hands, “Because, Sister, he does not WANT Legolas to turn out in any fashion. Every time Legolas acts for himself, he comes closer to the day that Father knows will come--when he will demand his freedom. And then--” the crown prince suddenly remembered Gandalf and broke off.

Gandalf said gravely, “The king seems loathe to part with the last of his children.”

With a sigh, Belhador nodded. “Our father will do all that he can to delay our brother’s departure. But it will come. Sooner perhaps than even we had thought. Legolas will desire to explore the world of which he has only heard stories until now. Even as a warrior, I believe he will not remain in Mirkwood. And I dread the day our father is forced to face it.”

***

Legolas was standing on the balcony of his chambers as the last rays of light faded into darkness. If he looked directly above his head, he could just see the stars appearing through the thick leaves and branches of the forest. A soft, warm breeze blew over his face and he closed his eyes, smiling to himself. He had no idea why he still felt this ridiculous desire to laugh.

“I loathe interrupting one who seems so contented.”

Legolas jumped. Turning, he saw his brother Belhador standing on his own balcony, smiling at him. Unable to contain himself, Legolas grinned foolishly and jumped to his brother’s balcony. “I did it, Belhador. I refused Queen Elenath’s offer of Lalven. I said no to her face!” Seeing his brother’s knowing expression, he laughed, “I suppose the entire Gathering has already heard.”

“One could sense the princess’s broken heart a league away,” Belhador declared dramatically. “Kindly do not snort, Legolas, it is an unbecoming sound.”

“Lalven never cared for me. Like Emlin, Lendael, Hatholiel, and Himiel, she was desperately in love with my newfound rank and glory. Did I forget to name any?”

“Lady Merilin,” Belhador remarked.

“That offer was Lady Narmeril’s, not Merilin’s. I do not count her among those treasure-seeking dwarf-ladies,” Legolas said dismissively.

“This triumph has emboldened you,” observed Belhador, but there was pleasure rather than censure in his voice.

Legolas laughed. “I suspect it has. I was terrified,” he and Belhador laughed harder still, “but I had no choice but to face the queen. Had I not been firm in my refusal, the matter would not have been closed. At least I shall not be forced to deal with Lalven again, though I may still have to refuse Emlin’s father. Perhaps then the others will see that I mean not to marry anyone in the near future.”

Belhador said thoughtfully, “I thought Father intended to speak to the rest on the matter of your marriage--”

Legolas shook his head. “I managed it myself once, I can do it again. I should learn to stand up for my feelings rather than spend my time hiding from flirtatious maidens.” Still grinning, he gazed into the darkness of the forest.

He noticed Belhador staring at him rather strangely, and a part of him thought objectively that he should be worried. Legolas disliked being a cause of trouble to any of his family, yet…he could not seem to rid himself of this odd glee at having faced down Queen Elenath. It was a strange sensation. Though elves by nature do not tend toward excesses of emotion--and excesses of behavior still less--Legolas was unusually reserved and serious even by elven standards. He was not easily excitable--his friends often accused him of being blasé.

So what could it mean, this strange elation that he felt? It was almost alarming. With a parting grin at his equally-baffled brother, Legolas sprang to a nearby tree limb and darted off into the woods. When he was a safe distance from the palace, he dropped unseen to the ground. It was as he had hoped; there was no one about. Grinning like a fool, he began running, with no destination in mind, simply running for pure exhilaration. Over roots, ducking branches, his arms sweeping wildly about (terrible form, but Legolas was not in the mood to think as a warrior) he ran with his eyes closed, relying on his ears and the feel of the air to warn him of obstacles. The entire forest seemed to be singing as joyously as his heart, and he felt he could have run all the way to the Misty Mountains and back.

At last he stopped and cast himself to the ground upon his back, his arms stretched out, still puzzled by this joy and yet not wanting it to leave him. *Langcyll and the other warriors said the second coming of age brings freedom. Perhaps that is what I feel. I need no longer rely on anyone’s protection or permission.* Smiling up at the stars that peered down at him through the leaves, he sighed and closed his eyes, listening to the whisper of the wind. *I think perhaps I will enjoy adulthood after all.*

***

The following day was the last for the Gathering of the Realms. From dawn until dusk, parties of elves made their farewells to friends and kin from the other realms and departed Mirkwood. As host, King Thranduil was occupied nearly every moment of the day, but looked endlessly for an opportunity to speak to Legolas that morning. Sentiment had warred with common sense nearly all night long as the king had grappled with what he had witnessed between his son and Queen Elenath. *I have every cause for pride. Legolas dealt with the situation, awkward as it was, with great dignity. And it was his prerogative to refuse the match. I should not seek to deprive him.*

From where he stood, the King could see Legolas standing among a group of young nobles preparing to depart with the party of Lord Elrond. Elladan had begun to pantomime some scene from the Trial, causing Legolas and Elrohir to burst into laughter. The Lady Arwen and Limloeth watched with expressions of aloof amusement at the antics of the boys. Tathar and Candrochon of Mirkwood, along with Faron and Gaerongil, the two delegates from Imladris, ran to join the rest of the group, hustling and shoving each other like first-century novices. In spite of his brooding thoughts, Thranduil smiled.

The idyllic scene was shattered when young Gaerongil of Imladris exclaimed, “We needn’t grieve; we shall soon see each other with the war parties.”

“Or perhaps you shall ride together,” Glorfindel of Imladris spoke up from where he had been watching them. “During these perilous times, war parties from many of the elven realms shall join to fight the foul creatures of Mordor and drive them from our lands. Already there is talk of Mirkwood and Imladris joining forces to scour the Misty Mountains south to Lórien.”

The young warriors exchanged interested and eager glances. Thranduil immediately glanced at Legolas, and while he did not appear itching like the others to test his bow against living enemies, the speculation in his eyes alarmed his father. *But he is too young! He is not ready!* the thoughts struck the king like physical blows, and he had no desire to restrain them. *It cannot be permitted. Legolas has never left Mirkwood, let alone traveled on a long hunting expedition. He must begin his journey into adulthood slowly and carefully.*

It was all Thranduil could do to bid the proper farewells to his departing guests, for he could scarcely keep his eyes from Legolas, so intent was he on sensing any signs that Legolas had been tempted by Glorfindel’s careless remarks. *Glorfindel should have known better than to tantalize these young ones with talk of adventure. The first decades after the second coming of age are a warrior’s most perilous years. In their eagerness, they can put themselves in great danger. I will not allow my last child to risk himself carelessly.*

It was difficult to tell exactly how Legolas had reacted to the suggestion. At the moment, he was laughing quite helplessly as Gaerongil sang a mocking (and somewhat profane) rendition of one of the ballads invented to praise Legolas at the banquet. The Imladris archer was forced to desist when Candrochon decided he had had enough and promptly elbowed the wind from Gaerongil’s stomach. Lord Elrond caught Thranduil’s eye, and the elf lords exchanged tolerant smiles for the horseplay. After all, it might be years before these young friends were all together again.

Candrochon and Gaerongil were now arguing about which of them had the finer singing voice, punctuated by remarks from Legolas and Tathar that they both sang equally ill. This prompted all of them to burst into song, though Legolas simply laughed and declined to join in the contest. Thranduil had always been pleased by his youngest son’s sense of dignity, though he would not have been terribly bothered had Legolas chosen to participate (for he would have won.)

“You shall be the judge, then, Legolas,” Candrochon ordered, and the singing began anew, with each young elf singing (and over-dramatizing) a different song while gesticulating with great gusto.

When they had finished, Princess Limloeth murmured something to the Ladies Merilin and Arwen about choruses of orcs and all the she-elves nearby laughed. “Peace, Sister,” Legolas laughed. “I think I must declare Candrochon the winner.”

Candrochon bowed dramatically, but Gaerongil exclaimed, “I must protest, for surely an elf of Mirkwood is biased when he judges his own kindred. I demand that Faron of Imladris settle this!”

Faron rejoined them and said, “I agreed with Legolas and Tathar’s initial judgment that you both sing equally ill. However, after hearing the three of you, I believe Tathar’s voice is still fouler.”

All the elves of Mirkwood and Imladris shared a hearty laugh over Tathar’s cry of “Unfair!”

“Ah, the singers of Imladris may be poor, but those of Mirkwood are poorer still,” Gaerongil declared.

“We surpass you in other ways, my friend, such as archery,” Legolas said in a light, innocent voice.

Several watching elves exclaimed eagerly at this playful taunt (very unlike Legolas) and Faron folded his arms challengingly, “There is yet time, my lord, if you would care to test your prowess shooting apples from trees.”

Realizing that this boyish bragging contest threatened to delay the Imladris party’s departure, Thranduil decided to forestall what might become a second Trial. “No arrows, Legolas.”

“Yes, Father,” Legolas replied and shrugged at his friends’ disappointed glances.

Lord Elrond had joined Thranduil to watch the carousal and remarked softly, “I should have liked to see such a contest. I suspect in this instance Imladris would have come out ahead.”

“Do not work against me, Elrond,” Thranduil murmured, chuckling. Then he paused before adding slyly, “But you are wrong. Mirkwood would have won.”

“I disagree.”

“My archers bested all but one of yours. The results of the Trial speak for themselves.”

“Shall we bid them try again?”

“Do not tempt me.”

Just as the party from Imladris was preparing to depart, happy shouts from elves still within the palace made them pause. “What is it?” Elladan exclaimed, as the others turned to see what had given rise to all the excitement.

Berensul, grinning slyly, emerged from the palace and declared, “My lords and ladies, I am pleased to inform you that Eregolf of Lórien has announced his betrothal to the Princess Lalven of Lindon. The date of their wedding feast has not yet been determined, but invitations shall be sent to all.”

With pleased nods and comments of approval, the elves outside began to applaud, and there were a great many winks in the direction of Legolas. Faron turned to Tathar and whispered, “I want my pearl back.”

“She asked for Legolas first,” Tathar hissed in protest, placing a hand over his belt pouch defensively.

Legolas apparently saw an opportunity to avenge himself for the endless teasing he had received at the hands of his friend. “The wager was on whom she would be matched to, Tathar, not whom she would offer for first. You declared victory too soon.”

Faron laughed, “There now, even one of your own comrades of Mirkwood agrees that the prize falls to me. Come, Tathar, hand over my pearl. And you owe me yet another one.”

“Traitor,” Tathar accused Legolas.

Legolas innocently suggested to Faron, “Hold out for the black pearl, my friend. To the victor go the spoils.” Then he winked and went to bid farewell to Lord Elrond and Lady Arwen.

Faron looked quizzically after the champion of Mirkwood. “Adulthood seems to agree with him. I do not claim to know Legolas as well as you, but I have never seen him so lively.”

“Nor I, my friend, and I may claim to know him well. Though it may have a great deal to do with the fact that the party from the Grey Havens left this morning,” Tathar replied.

“And with it Lady Emlin!” laughed Faron. “Ah, now here’s a pretty thing,” he held up Tathar’s black pearl in the light for all to behold.

“So rare, pearls of such color,” Gaerongil declared loudly. The nearest elves laughed, and Tathar made an uncomplimentary remark about Imladris elves and their gambling, which merely succeeded in making them laugh harder still. It was a merry party that left Mirkwood for Rivendell.

***

By sundown, the population of Mirkwood had been reduced to its usual size. As much as Legolas had enjoyed seeing his friends from the other realms, he was very much relieved to no longer be bumping into people every time he turned a corner.

Legolas was seated--or rather, sprawling--upon a chair in an empty pavilion in the trees beyond the palace reading as the first stars came out. He had had little time to himself during the two weeks of the Gathering, and certainly no time to sit and study. As a result, so engrossed was he in his book that he did not hear King Thranduil’s ascent up the tree stairs.

“Legolas?” The prince started, then grinned unashamedly at his father. Thranduil asked wryly, “You seem in a jovial mood. Was the Gathering so painful that you are delighted to have seen its end?”

It seemed that whatever word one used to describe Legolas’s mood, it would not be soured. Legolas laughed and shook his head, “No indeed, Father, I assure you. I did enjoy the Gathering…” he paused, then with a knowing smile, admitted, “most of it.”

The King smiled and seated himself in another chair, gazing at his youngest son with a thoughtful expression. Legolas was feeling too contented to notice the manner in which his father groped for words. “I received a great deal of praise for you and the grace with which you have come of age, my son. I am told I have every reason for pride.”

Legolas blushed. “I hope I shall live up to it. I intend living up to it,” he added with more resolve. The king looked somewhat disconcerted by the unusual vehemence in his voice, but Legolas went on eagerly, “The warrior exercises resume their normal routine tomorrow. I mean to train now more than ever so that I may join the next war parties when they depart.”

It had been a given that Thranduil would have words of caution for his son; he always did. But Legolas had been entirely unprepared for the king’s response to his intentions. “Now hold, Legolas,” he said sharply, raising a hand to forestall further plans. Legolas fell silent instinctively. “I’ve no doubt you are eager to partake of the privileges of adulthood, but you get ahead of yourself. You do not truly reach your majority for more than a third of a century. It is too soon for you to be thinking of war parties.”

Legolas was startled, and the bliss he had been enjoying vanished like the sun behind a cloud. “But…I…we have all been taught that it is our right after coming of age to join the warriors as equals. What shall I…”

“I do not deny you the privilege of taking part in the protection of Mirkwood, my son,” Thranduil said mildly. “I merely feel that you are yet too young to be gallivanting about Middle Earth when you scarcely know Mirkwood.”

Puzzled, Legolas answered, “But, Father, it was you who advised me to remain close to home throughout my training as a novice. You told me that I would be better prepared for journeys when I had come of age.”

“And indeed you have,” his father told him. “But my son, having your coming of age recognized does not mean that you are entitled to have your own way in everything.” Legolas desired to protest that he had never believed such a thing, but did not dare interrupt the king. “With adulthood comes maturity, one hopes, and the wisdom to think beyond your immediate desires and choose a prudent path,” Thranduil went on. “Langcyll praised you greatly at the banquet for your caution, Legolas, and called upon all other novices and warriors to emulate you. High acknowledgement indeed, and that you must also live up to.”

Feeling confused and more than a little disappointed, Legolas asked, “What would you have me do, then?”

Thoughtfully, Thranduil replied, “Langcyll said you were a fine example to the other novices. I think your skills and good habits would be best displayed to them if you joined the novice masters on their training journeys. I am aware that it was on my advice that you did not travel far from the palace during your early training, and now would be an opportunity to do so. Acquaint yourself with your home, my son, before attempting to explore the world beyond. There are perils enough in Mirkwood to endanger a careless youth. Time, Legolas, there is plenty of time in your life to see and do all that you desire. I only counsel you to have patience.”

Legolas slowly nodded, “Yes, Father.” With that, Thranduil evidently decided the discussion was concluded, and rose, making his way back to the forest floor.

Legolas sat in his chair for a great while, mulling over what his father had said. Of course, it was true; Legolas was younger than all the other new warriors in Mirkwood. Such words of caution were wise--then again, his father’s counsel was always wise. It made sense for him to move slowly into the life of a warrior, rather than attempt to take on all the responsibilities--and dangers--at once.

He had always been reminded by his father that the first centuries after the second coming of age were an elven warrior’s most perilous years. Indeed, his father knew that painful fact more than most; two of Legolas’s elder siblings had perished within decades of coming of age. Legolas sighed; his father’s advice--in truth he had left little room for argument--was sensible. As unexciting as joining some of the smaller parties would be, that was clearly what Thranduil desired. But just the same, the exultation Legolas had felt since yesterday had been replaced by gloom. *Must my life be utterly without excitement?*

***

Because Gandalf had no pressing business elsewhere immediately following the Gathering, he accepted the Crown Prince Berensul’s invitation to stay in Mirkwood awhile longer. The Maia was uncertain of what Berensul wanted of him, but the answer became clear on the very first morning.

Prince Legolas had appeared positively frisky when the last of the guests had departed the night before. Gandalf had seen the young archer vanishing into the trees as soon as etiquette would permit it. He had also seen King Thranduil leave the palace not long afterward, and it had not taken the wisdom of ages to see the elven king’s intentions. Whatever had transpired between them, this morning Legolas had not only returned to his normal reticent self, he seemed decidedly worse. Only Gandalf’s trained eye could detect the lack of spring in the son of Thranduil’s step and the ever-so-slight droop of his shoulders, as though coming of age had become a burden. *I should very much like to know what the king said to lower his spirits so.*

Later that morning, Gandalf watched Mirkwood’s newest warriors training with the masters, captains, and novices on one of the practice fields. “Come, Legolas, you shall practice with the sword today,” Langcyll was saying. “For we all have seen your skill with the bow.”

As the others laughed, Legolas smiled somewhat weakly but took up the proffered sword and began to spar with one of the other young warriors. *His skill with the blade is nearly as fine as the bow,* Gandalf thought. *I suspect there are few weapons in existence that this elf could not master.*

“Move your feet, Thorod!” one of the master’s urged the young warrior’s opponent.

Legolas knocked the sword from Thorod’s hand in spite of the other elf’s valiant defense, and returned the weapons to Langcyll. They were close enough to Gandalf that the wizard could hear what passed between them next. “In a few weeks time, you shall make a worthy addition to our war parties, Legolas.”

The young elf cleared his throat awkwardly and said, “I think, perhaps, I should join one of the training expeditions before traveling with the war parties.” Langcyll appeared baffled, and Legolas explained, “I think I am yet too young to be entirely…valuable, to the warriors of Mirkwood. I may be more useful training the younger novices.”

“Training?! Legolas, did you not hear a word I said at the banquet? You are more prepared to fight as a warrior than any novice I have ever trained,” there was a hint of frustration in the older elf’s voice. “You are not only valuable to my warriors, your skills are needed. Soon they will be badly needed. A shadow grows here, young prince, and all our warriors are needed.”

Legolas did not meet his captain’s eyes. Gandalf frowned to himself as the exercises were ended for the afternoon and the prince hastily took his leave.

***  
  
Legolas had been certain that the opinion of Langcyll would hold weight when he approached King Thranduil in the throne room. That in itself took him nearly an hour to work up the courage. He could not recall the last time he had made a real request of his father, and thought all those factors might incline the king to grant it. How wrong he was.

“I thought we had finished this discussion last night, my son,” Thranduil said with a hint of carefully controlled impatience in his voice.

“Yes, Father,” Legolas said, managing not to stutter. “However, I spoke to Langcyll this morning during the exercises. And…he feels that my skills are needed--”

The king silenced him with an irritable wave of his hand, “Shooting toys tossed by trainers hardly qualifies as skill, Legolas, as you will soon learn. You’ve yet to fight a battle, but already you talk of going to war. Such rashness will be the death of you.”

In his frustration, Legolas blurted without thinking, “I’m not being rash, Father!” He faltered at the sight of the anger growing on Thranduil’s face, but forced himself to go on saying what he had rehearsed in his mind. “I do not ask to ride out and face perils alone. I ask to be allowed to travel among my fellow warriors as I have trained to do for hundreds of years. To protect them and be protected by them, so that we may all defend our home. Langcyll and the others would not allow me to come to harm any more than I would allow them.”

Taking a deep breath, King Thranduil rose from his throne and moved forward to where his son was standing. It took every ounce of willpower Legolas had not to step backward. He had never angered his father so before. His black eyes boring into his son’s, Thranduil spoke in a low, harsh voice, “That is just what your brother Tavron and your sisters Meren and Lalaith thought when they left on their first expedition. Must I remind you of that?”

Legolas flinched involuntarily, and Thranduil pressed his advantage. “Your brother and sisters were among a large war party, Legolas, under the command of one of Mirkwood’s finest captains. It had been less than ten years since Meren and Lalaith had come of age, but your brother Tavron had been a warrior for more than a century. Must I remind you of how they perished, more than half of their party slain in an ambush after being trapped in an orc-loosed avalanche in the mountains?”

Legolas closed his eyes and turned his head away. The king was not shouting, but to face the force in his voice was like leaning into a gale. “Must I remind you how your mother nearly died of grief? To say nothing of how I myself felt; it was only for her sake that I managed to carry on. When you were born, at last I did not fear for Minuial’s future, only to lose her to that accursed demon in Moria. I had been against her going to that forsaken place in the beginning. Do you not see, Legolas? Two sisters and a brother whom you never knew, and your mother slain when you were a child, forcing me to raise you alone in spite of my grief, all because foolish and unnecessary risks were taken.

Thranduil gripped his son’s shoulders and said in a low, tight voice, “I will not lose you as well, Legolas. Do you understand me?”

Legolas could not have answered the king if he had wished to; the tightness of his throat made it impossible. He dared not open his stinging eyes. Instead, he nodded, not looking up, and felt Thranduil release his shoulders. “I hope this has clarified the matter for you, my son.”

He still could not speak. Opening his eyes at last, but staring fixedly at the floor, Legolas fled the throne room.

 

*****

 

UPDATED ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE: LEGOLAS’S FAMILY AND FRIENDS:

Crown Prince Berensul--Legolas’s eldest brother, heir to the throne,  
Crown Princess Eirien--Berensul’s wife, (formerly from Imladris)  
Princess Limloeth--second child of King Thranduil  
Prince Tavron--third child of King Thranduil, died in battle before Legolas was born (in my universe)  
Princesses Meren and Lalaith--twins, fourth and fifth children of King Thranduil, died in battle before Legolas was born (in my universe)  
Prince Belhador--sixth child of King Thranduil

Queen Minuial--Legolas’s mother, died when he was twenty-two (in my universe. I made up her name)

Langcyll--warrior captain and head novice master of Mirkwood, trained Legolas and other novices  
Lady Merilin--archer of Mirkwood, trained beside Legolas  
Tathar--Legolas’s best friend, fellow archer and training companion  
Candrochon--fellow archer of Mirkwood and training companion  
Faron of Imladris--archer champion of Imladris, friend of the Mirkwood archers  
Gaerongil of Imladris--archer delegate of Imladris, friend of the Mirkwood archers  
Eregolf of Lórien--archer champion of Lórien  



	7. Out of the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

Having enjoyed the rare luxury of sleeping late, King Thranduil felt more than prepared for the difficult conversation he would soon be having with Legolas. But the king had not yet finished breakfast when he decided he did not wish to wait. Thranduil did not want Legolas to continue believing that his father cared nothing for his feelings. He called to one of the servants, “Has the novice practice begun yet?”

“Nay, my lord. It begins in just under an hour.”

*I shall walk down and see him before the training is started,* Thranduil decided. *There will be time for long conversations…and apologies…later, now I shall simply let him know that he has my permission and blessing to join the next war parties. That shall raise his spirits.* Thranduil had come to deeply regret his handling of Legolas in the matter of Gaerongil’s death. *I should never have spoken to him so in his distraught state. It is no wonder he lost his temper. The fault was mine, and tonight I shall let him know it.*

The elven king walked to the training fields where the novices were preparing for their exercises, and was surprised by the discovery that their numbers seemed to have dropped. “Where is everyone?” he asked no one in particular.

One of the elder novices turned and bowed to him, “Missions were called at dawn, my lord. Most of them have left for today, and more will depart tomorrow.”

*Confound it. I had forgotten.* Aloud, Thranduil asked, “Did Prince Legolas volunteer for one of the missions?”

There was no way the young novice could have known what had passed between Legolas and Thranduil the day before. “Yea, my lord.”

But the truth did not dawn upon the king. He sighed to himself and left the field, incorrectly assuming that Legolas had gone on one of the training missions (as Thranduil had suggested.) *Some of those missions take as long as a month, and after last night he may have wished to escape me. It may be weeks before I have the opportunity to speak to him.* The thought sorrowed Thranduil, but he supposed it was his just recompense.

Walking back towards the palace, the king saw his daughter Limloeth coming from the stables. The way she stiffened at the sight of him should have warned him, but he was so preoccupied that he did not notice. “Good morning, Limloeth.”

“Good morning, Father,” the princess said. Again, Thranduil missed the tension in her voice.

“I see Legolas has fled the palace?” he asked in an effort to make light of the situation, and let her know he was not angry at her brother. Limloeth nodded, and he asked absently, “Who commanded his party?”

“Langcyll,” she replied quietly.

Thranduil frowned in confusion, “Was there a change in plans? Langcyll does not usually command training missions.”

Limloeth took a deep breath, “Nor did he.”

Thranduil stared at her for a moment, then the truth struck him in a devastating blaze of light. For a second, he could neither speak nor move, then he started swiftly past her toward the palace. “Father,” Limloeth called from behind him. He turned, staring at her dumbly. In a flat voice, his one living daughter told him, “He is gone.”

“No--”

“The first companies departed an hour past dawn this morning. The sun is now high in the sky. Legolas is gone,” there was neither sympathy nor comfort in Limloeth’s voice.

*No, it cannot be true. She is mistaken. It cannot--Langcyll always commands the longest and most perilous missions himself. Legolas would not be so foolish--* Thranduil all but ran toward the North Gate of the fortress from where the warriors usually departed.

The novices were there, preparing to leave with their training missions. Thranduil stared frantically about for Legolas until one of the novice masters, Seregon, noticed him. “My lord?”

Managing to keep his voice steady, the king asked hoarsely, “Where is my son?”

The novices had not known of the prince’s dilemma, but the masters had. Seregon replied nervously, “Prince Legolas departed this morning with Langcyll’s war party, my lord. They…are half a day down the trail.”

Thranduil’s mind raced, and he could not remember all the missions. “Where was that party to go?”

“The mission was to scour the mountains, my lord,” Seregon replied. “They plan to go north to the Grey Mountains, then west to Imladris, then south to Moria and Lórien, to keep the creatures of Mordor from taking refuge there when they have been driven from Mirkwood.”

“And how long was the mission to last?” Thranduil asked, dreading the reply.

“At least two years, my lord,” the novice master said, disliking being the one to break this news to the king. “Langcyll thought it…might be longer still if the enemy has gained much of a hold in the mountains, or if the company joins the other realms on a mission further south. Perhaps…many years.”

***

Feeling distinctly numb, King Thranduil returned to the palace and went to Legolas’s chamber. It was completely neat. At first glance, there was nothing to suggest Legolas was not returning--for his room was always immaculate. But on closer examination, his rough gear and boots gone, along with his weapons. Then Legolas’s father discovered the unarguable proof: the silver circlet demonstrating his royalty sat upon his bed like a farewell token. He had left no message. Thranduil sat heavily down upon his youngest son’s bed, holding the circlet in shock. “Legolas…”

***

Berensul and Belhador had also taken the opportunity to sleep late, and they had only just arisen when Limloeth returned to tell them that Legolas had gone. And that their father had just been told. The fledgling warrior’s brothers and sister shed tears of pride and sorrow--they would miss him greatly, and he them--but their minds were most occupied by how the elven king would react.

They were departing Berensul’s chamber where they had been talking, when the door to their brother’s chamber opened, and King Thranduil emerged. He stared at them, and they stared back; no words would come to either party. The king had his failings, but he still possessed elven senses and perceptions, and his children knew that he could see their minds. And that he knew their feelings--that he had driven Legolas to this flight. The elven king did not speak, but walked stiffly past them, into his own chamber, and closed the door.

As they heard the sound of the king’s chamber door being bolted, Berensul murmured, “And so it begins.”

That afternoon and well into the night, the King of Mirkwood remained within his rooms, and quietly drank until he was ill.

***

The wind whipped Legolas’s hair as the company galloped through the trees, moving toward the northernmost reaches of Mirkwood. They did not slow to search for enemies within the wood; other patrols and hunting parties had been dispatched for that purpose. Langcyll’s task was to begin scouring the mountains surrounding Mirkwood soon, to prevent the orcs, spiders, and other foul creatures from taking refuge after being driven from the greenwood, only to descend upon it once again when the danger had passed.

They were traveling for the moment with two other war parties: the company of Narbeleth, which included Merilin, and Eregdos and his party, which included Candrochon. “We will ride together with their companies until we reach one of the streams coming off the Forest River; there Eregdos shall lead his party to the Lonely Mountain, and Narbeleth’s party shall depart west for the Anduin,” Langcyll had told them.

So for a time, Legolas, Tathar, Merilin, and Candrochon found themselves together in the center of the contingent, half-amused, half-irritated at the protective positions of the older warriors. “I wonder if we would have been thus coddled if you were not here,” Candrochon grumbled at Legolas.

Legolas opened his mouth to retort, but from behind them, another elf spoke. “We do not coddle you, young one. It is custom that the least seasoned warriors ride at the center until they have gained more experience. And beyond custom, it is prudent. Shedding blood is very different from striking a target or scoring a hit. You must learn to face a living foe who seeks only your death. If we place you where you are set upon from all sides, you would be swiftly overwhelmed.”

“How many battles must be fought before we are considered ready to defend ourselves?” Legolas asked without resentment.

The she-elf, who was of Legolas’s company and called Elunen, smiled, “You are no longer on training schedules, my lord. As snowflakes or leaves in a forest, every battle and foe is different. You will be considered ready when you are ready.”

The four could find no argument with that, although Candrochon still appeared miffed. Elunen narrowed her grey eyes slightly and pulled her mount up to ride closer to them, “Be wary, young warriors. You have only just come of age and these shall be your most perilous years. Impatience and carelessness are a warrior’s greatest enemies, and if you become overly eager to test your prowess in battle, you may suffer for it. We are an immortal race; you shall have many thousands of years to prove yourselves--if you have the wisdom to learn what you must to survive.”

Seeing the newcomers’ thoughtful expressions, Elunen smiled and rode off ahead. As soon as she had gone, Tathar jabbed Candrochon with his bow. Legolas and Merilin exchanged grins. From the front, they heard one of the scouts calling, “We have reached the stream!”

The companies stopped to eat and water the horses. Seated together beside one of the meat pots, the four friends talked. “My company is not to be gone a terribly long time,” Merilin said. “Though we may follow the Grey Mountains east from the source of the Anduin if there is considerable orc activity. But we are expected to return within six months.”

“My expedition is expected to return home in nine months, perhaps a year if we encounter many foul creatures,” Candrochon told them. “And we do have the dwarves to reckon with.”

“We shall be gone even longer,” Tathar noted sadly. “Two years, perhaps longer still if winter in the mountains is very bad, or the creatures of Mordor more numerous than expected.”

It had begun to dawn upon the young warriors that they would not see each other again, nor were they likely to receive tidings of each other, for a very long time. As novices, they had trained by each other’s sides for centuries; rarely spending more than a few weeks separated. They had been taught to be close with their fellows in arms, but now the time for lessons was over.

As a rather melancholy quiet descended on them, Legolas had to smile, “It is a wonder; having spent all those hundreds of years yearning for the day we would come of age and ride away with the warriors, now we feel grief.”

Tathar laughed, “Still another catch to the warrior’s coming of age that our esteemed masters neglected to mention.”

They had made no effort to lower their voices (the other elves would hear anything said in such proximity) and Tathar’s remark was met by laughter from nearby. The four looked and saw that although they had not joined in, the rest of the warriors had been listening to the conversation of their newest comrades. Langcyll motioned some of the others aside and beckoned at the newcomers to join them. Blushing somewhat, Merilin, Tathar, Legolas, and Candrochon picked up their rations and joined the elder warriors.

“There is always sorrow in first farewells,” Elunen told them as they gathered into a loose assembly to talk to the youngest of their bands. “And no shame in it. A warrior shall never be closer to any than those who trained alongside him. Yet even in this, you grow. You shall meet many new comrades, see new places, as well as battle first foes. Thus is the way of warriors. The first coming of age begins the time of learning. The second begins the time of discovery.”

“And I fear we shall do much discovering yet before we are as seasoned as any in this number,” Merilin replied graciously.

The captain of Merilin‘s company, Narbeleth, chuckled wryly, “Do not despair, my dear companion, you may see action sooner than you think. And more action than even the most seasoned of our number should like,” she added, her tone darkening slightly.

“Another wise point, my friend,” Langcyll said. “Always remember that you do not merely seek to improve your skills and win glory for yourselves. An elf warrior fights to defend his home and his people. A shadow grows here, my young and eager companions. From whence it comes, we do not know, but it grows still and brings with it the foul creatures that plague our woods. We know not how to fight the shadow, but fight orcs we can, and fight them we shall, unceasing until they have been driven forth again.”

The four nodded solemnly, feeling awed, and somewhat unsettled by the captain’s words. Briskly, Langcyll rose. “Alas, I fear the time for farewells is upon us. We must be moving on, and here my party and the parties of Narbeleth and of Eregdos shall part ways.”

Quickly, and with an unashamed touch of sadness, the elves collected their gear and remounted their horses. Candrochon and Merilin moved their mounts alongside Legolas and Tathar and gripped each other’s arms at the elbow in parting. “Farewell, my friends and brothers-in-arms. I know not when we shall meet again, but I pray that fate keep you safe,” Merilin said.

“Until we meet again, my dear friend, farewell,” Legolas said.

“I’ve no doubt we shall know many worthy warriors in the future,” Candrochon told them. “But you three shall always be best and dearest in my heart.”

“My thoughts and prayers go with you, Merilin, Candrochon,” Tathar added.

Eregdos returned from bidding farewell to Langcyll, and gave the signal to ride east. “Goodbye Tathar, Merilin!” Candrochon called as he rode away. “Goodbye Legolas!”

They waved to Merilin as Narbeleth’s party rode west along the riverbank and vanished swiftly around a bend. Then Langcyll also gave the order to move out, and the company rode north. Legolas and Tathar looked back over their shoulders as the last of Candrochon’s company vanished eastward into the trees along the river. They then turned their faces forward and rode on, shedding this last vestige of novice-hood. Their companions exchanged approving glances.

***

Legolas had been picked when the party drew lots for watches that night, though with such a large company, three stood watch at any given time. He stood silently against a tree at the west end of the camp, glancing back now and then at Galithil and Fandoll, the other two on watch with him. The three watchers formed a triangle, with the remaining elves sleeping between, and the horses close by. They did not expect any problems, for they were still well within Mirkwood. It would be a brave orc or spider who would challenge a camp of fifteen elven warriors.

Legolas knew it was simply his “boyish eagerness,” as Langcyll had irritatingly taken to calling it, but he half-hoped something would happen. He knew life as a warrior would not be always filled with excitement and glory, but standing watch on this cloudy night, with no stars to see by, was a bore. He shifted his weight to his other leg, staring into the dark, and glanced around him. He caught Galithil yawning, and the young warrioress grinned at him, her pale gray eyes twinkling with merriment in the firelight. He was relieved not to be the only one of the company susceptible to boredom.

As the watch wore on, Legolas could not prevent his mind from wandering back to the palace--and wondering how his father had reacted when he learned what Legolas had done. Legolas wondered if Thranduil would forgive him. *Soon I will not have time for such reflections; my mind will be occupied by more important things. I must set aside the thought of my father now, and the past. The time has come to look to the future.*

Fandoll looked over at him then. Though the warrior had a merry nature, the dim light upon his dark features made him appear brooding. As if roused by some signal, Glanaur, Thalatirn, and Tuilinn awoke to relieve Legolas, Fandoll, and Galithil. Glanaur took Legolas’s place, “Nothing to report?”

“Nay,” Legolas answered. “All is quiet.”

The seasoned Glanaur was not fooled by the young elf’s casual tone. With a sly smile, (and irritatingly parental tone) he said, “How frightfully rude of the creatures of Mordor not to have made an appearance in honor of your first watch. What a disappointment.”

Legolas smiled sheepishly and wove his way through the sleeping elves to his own blanket next to Tathar’s--dead in the center. He reasoned to himself that there was no doubt he would see considerable action over the next months. Soon he would probably be wishing for a peaceful night of uninterrupted sleep. With that in mind, he cast himself down and fell immediately into dreams.

***

The following day, one of the scouts bringing up the rear of the company called ahead that a messenger was approaching, bearing the king’s flag. The other warriors instinctively looked to Legolas, who made no obvious reaction--perhaps only Langcyll and Tathar noticed that he broke a sweat. The messenger and his guards had ridden hard all night to catch up with the company, and the war party was very curious as to what urgent business could have sent him.

The messenger rode up to Langcyll and spoke to the captain for a moment. Then Langcyll turned to Legolas, who could not prevent himself from stiffening. “My lord, the message is for you.”

Legolas rode forward, painfully conscious of the eyes of the other warriors and took the small, carefully wrapped parcel bearing the king’s seal. When he opened it, he found the silver circlet of Mirkwood. A small scroll had been sent with it, bearing a note, unsigned, but written in the king’s hand: “It is your duty, and your right.”

Legolas placed the message silently in his saddlebag, then stared at the crown, wondering what to do. Langcyll sensed his youngest warrior’s dilemma, and rode up to him. “You should put it on, my lord. It is just one of your many duties.”

With a mental sigh, Legolas placed the crown on his head, wondering to himself whether this had been a signal of forgiveness or spite from his father. Thranduil knew being singled out as a prince troubled Legolas, but on the other hand…perhaps it was an acknowledgement. Perhaps both. Without imparting the message to his comrades (and they did not ask) Legolas resumed his place next to Tathar, feeling once again as though he stood out ridiculously. *For a time at least, I was just another warrior. I suppose to enjoy the rights of coming of age, I must also bear the less pleasant duties. How I wish I could simply be one of them.*

Tathar looked playfully at him as they rode on, “The crown of Mirkwood becomes you, my lord--do not scowl at me, Legolas, it is true! You can no more deny yourself as a prince of Mirkwood than the king could deny you were a warrior.” Never before had Tathar spoken so boldly to Legolas of his lineage, and he stared defiantly at his friend’s glare.

With a sigh, followed by a dry chuckle, Legolas shook his head, “As you say, Tathar. You’ve the better of me.”

“As always, Legolas. Be of good cheer. You need not face pomp and ceremony in the palace for a long time. You shall soon forget you even wear the crown, and the others shall soon cease to notice it.”

***

The pace was swift, but not hard; the company was aiming for thoroughness rather than speed in this mission. Within four days, the party had ridden out of Mirkwood, a vast plain spreading before them that crumpled into the purplish outlines of mountains in the distance. To the southeast stood the solitary grey hulk of Lonely Mountain. “Thither goes Candrochon,” Tathar remarked as they looked at it.

“And thither go we,” Elunen called to them, gesturing to the far end of the mountain range.

Legolas looked at the mountains, lining the horizon as far west as he could see. *We certainly shall be gone from home long. Already we are the farthest away from home I have ever been.* The thought was both exciting and disconcerting, but Legolas rode on with a light heart.

They made good time that day, and by the time the sun was low upon the horizon, the trees of Mirkwood were no more than a dark streak along the southwestern horizon. “We shall halt here,” Langcyll called as they reached a swift-running creek, “and give the horses extra rest. I wish to make a long day of it tomorrow.”

Legolas and Tathar, along with Langcyll and several of the others, took the horses to drink while the rest set up camp. “Take your fill, Sadron, you’ve had a long day,” Tathar told his brown stallion affectionately. “How do you like the flatlands, Legolas?”

Legolas stared about him, fascinated by the landscape that bore scarcely a sign of trees while the mountains had grown ever larger before them. “It is most certainly different,” he observed, and the others grinned.

“You will see many things that are different from Mirkwood before we are done, my lord,” Elunen called to him from across the creek, where several horses and elves were wading up to their knees. “The high mountains are still stranger to an elf of the greenwood.”

“How can an orc or a spider conceal themselves upon these open plains?” Legolas asked.

“They find ways, my lord,” Glanaur told him as he filled a water skin. The tall warrior rose and gazed around the seemingly-empty landscape, “They find ways. I suspect we shall see some before we reach the mountains.”

“Perhaps not,” Langcyll remarked as he passed them. “They may await us in the mountains in the hopes of staging an ambush.” Legolas had to fiercely suppress a shudder, remembering his brother and two sisters--or what he had been told of them, since they had died before his birth.

None of the others noticed, to his relief. “Legolas, Tathar, Glanaur,” Elunen called. “If your horses are sated, take them back to camp and bring the others. They must all have their turn and we must finish making camp by sundown.”

Springing upon Lanthir’s back, Legolas rode with Tathar and Glanaur back toward the camp. Langcyll and Gwilwileth, a warrioress from Legolas’s sister Limloeth’s generation, soon passed by them upon their mounts, leading two more. Suddenly, Langcyll raised a hand and all the horses stopped. Gwilwileth and Glanaur rode up next to him, blocking Legolas’s view. “What is it?” he asked Tathar, leaning in the saddle.

“Someone comes,” Tathar hissed, just able to see past Langcyll. “Not the Enemy’s servants, I think. They come openly, toward the river. A group of--dwarves, Legolas! They are dwarves!”

“I’ve never seen a dwarf!” Legolas whispered back.

“I know. Langcyll and the others wait to meet them.”

“What will they say, do you think?”

“I do not know.”

The party of dwarves soon spied the elves making their camp above the riverbank and more elves on horseback watching them. Legolas watched with great curiosity, and urged Lanthir a few steps forward for a better look as the leader of the group, walked up to speak to Langcyll. The top of the iron helm the heavy-bearded creature wore barely reached the hip of Langcyll’s mount. “Wood elves. What business have you in these lands?” Legolas was startled by the unfriendliness in the dwarf’s tone.

“We have no quarrel with you, Master Dwarf,” Langcyll replied with dignity. “We are a patrol of Mirkwood, seeking to drive the orcs and foul creatures of Mordor far from our borders.”

“Hmph, and straight into our borders is where they’ll wind up, to trouble our people,” the dwarf growled.

“Nay, we intend to pursue them further, as far south as we can. Then neither our lands nor yours shall be troubled by their scourge.” The dwarf harrumphed, apparently seeing no cause to believe a word Langcyll said. “In any case, we needn’t trouble each other now. My company shall be continue riding on the morrow. We desire no argument.”

The dwarf grunted and jerked his head at his companions, who followed him and paid the rest of Langcyll’s party no heed as they headed towards the shallowest part of the creek. As Legolas and Tathar gazed curiously at them, the lead dwarf again glanced up and--like all others--his gaze was drawn to the silver vine circlet Legolas wore. His beady black eyes darkened still more, “Hmph. The crown of Mirkwood. He must be another of that greedy tyrant Thranduil’s spawn. I’ve lost track of how many there are.”

Legolas did not respond, so shocked was he by the scorn-ridden words. He stared after the dwarves, who had dismissed him as swiftly as they had noticed him, and were now plodding their way across the creek. The prince’s first thought was to wonder what vicious fabrications could possibly lead the dwarves to believe such things about Thranduil.

Then, memories began to wiggle unbidden into his mind: snatches of unintentionally overheard conversations, rumors, and gossip. He also recalled having come upon his father in one of his storerooms, examining gemstones and silver and other riches with a rather peculiar expression that Legolas had been too young to identify at the time. Could it be that…he turned back to his companions and was alarmed yet again by their collective expression--chagrin. Tathar shrugged at him, “There, Legolas, now you have met dwarves.”

At Langcyll’s urging, they rode back to camp for the rest of the horses. Legolas was silent for much of the evening.

***

As the other warriors gathered around the fires, eating, talking, and singing, Langcyll kept a discreet eye on the youngest. Tathar was seated close to one of the fires and talking earnestly with Tuilinn, one of the younger she-elves in the group. Legolas, on the other hand, was sitting a little apart from the rest, his eyes troubled. Only Langcyll had noticed that Legolas had eaten little and spoken even less since their encounter with the dwarves.

*He had to learn of his father’s shortcomings sooner or later,* Langcyll thought. *Once he left Mirkwood it was inevitable. But of all those who could have told him, why did he have to hear it from the dwarves? Perhaps I should have told him long ago.* He looked again at the young prince, who was gazing absently into the flames of one of the campfires, the light flickering off his crown. Langcyll, too, wondered whether the king had sent that as a token of honor or as a lash to hurt Legolas, for it was still another thing that forced Legolas to feel different. *Already he feels alienated; that is why he sits apart,* Langcyll thought with a sigh. It was not his place to interfere with the king’s relationship with his son, but then again--*Legolas is one of my warriors now, under my charge and care. It is my duty to see to his well-being, in all respects.*

With that in mind, Langcyll rose and walked to seat himself next to Legolas. And, in the fashion of a veteran elf warrior, he came straight to the point, “There are many things you do not know of King Thranduil, Legolas.”

Without taking his eyes from the fire, Legolas replied, “I am beginning to see that.”

“But neither the king’s deeds nor his reputation need hold power over you. You know your own mind and heart, young prince. Your destiny lies along a different path. A greater path, I think, than even an elven king,” the archer captain said.

Legolas blinked, apparently doubtful that any could call him “great,” in the present or future. Just then, Tathar and several of the others began laughing at something Gwilwileth had said, and one of them cried, “Come, my lord, Langcyll, you cannot sit alone by the fire all night.”

“Listen to Tuilinn. There will be little time for merriment in days ahead, my lord, best make the most of it now,” Glanaur called to Legolas.

The prince sighed and said in a low voice to Langcyll, “Must they call me that?”

“You are of noble birth, Legolas.”

“I desired neither this title nor this crown. I should like to make myself worthy of nobility before it is given me.” But Legolas rose, and he and Langcyll joined their comrades.

***

The following day did not begin well. It was still full dark, but anxiety invaded Legolas’s dreams. He woke with a bit of a start to find himself still surrounded by sleeping elves, but he sensed something was amiss. He looked around to see three new warriors on watch, but Langcyll had also risen and was talking to one of them, Nathron. Nathron noticed Legolas first and motioned to Langcyll, who seemed surprised to see the youngest of his warriors awake. Langcyll indicated for Legolas to join Gwilwileth at the south side of the camp.

“You could not sleep?” she asked as he reached her.

“A shadow disturbed my sleep,” he answered softly, staring into the darkness. “Something draws near.”

Gwilwileth asked, “What?”

Legolas paused, his elven senses scanning out over the plain, and his ears picked up sounds far too faint and distant for any mortal to hear. He had been drilled in the sounds and signs that identified foul creatures, but this was the first time he had actually heard them. Still, they were unmistakable. “Orcs.”

His sister’s friend looked impressed. “Caranaur has only just awakened Langcyll, yet they roused you from sleep. Your ears are keen.”

Legolas was still listening. “They are between us and Mirkwood. They are a large band, and bold, or they’d not have dared coming so deep into our borders. Will they be bold enough to challenge the camp, do you think?”

Langcyll had come up then, and exchanged a wordless glance with Gwilwileth before Legolas turned back to them. “What do you think?” Langcyll asked him.

The young elf looked back out into the darkness, and this time could make out shapes moving stealthily (or with as much stealth as an orc could muster) among the ground and amid the low scrubby bushes that dotted the lowland. Moving towards the camp. “They come,” he said, feeling a strange new tightness in his insides. “Perhaps our patrols within Mirkwood have driven them out and they have no choice but to move our way. Their only means of escape is through us.”

Langcyll nodded, “I fear our king’s son speaks the truth. The fell creatures of Mordor grow bolder still. We must rouse the camp,” he raised his voice then, and the elves raised their heads in response. All immediately sensed the peril approaching and rose silently. In a quiet voice still enough for all the elves to hear, Langcyll said, “We shall prepare an ambush. Half of the company shall remain here with the horses and feign sleep to draw the orcs. The other half shall spread out.”

There was little time to speak or question as the shadow on the plains grew nearer by the second. Legolas and the others in his group removed their bedrolls and left them among the horses. Legolas felt slightly anxious at leaving his noble mount, Lanthir, to serve as bait for the orcs, but it could not be helped. Tathar remained among the elves in the camp, essentially using themselves as bait. Crouching behind a clump of thorny bushes, Legolas readied his bow, and waited for Langcyll’s signal.

They came in a group of twenty or so, dark, creeping, slimy, loathsome creatures, even more hideous than Legolas had imagined them. And dull-witted, for they shuffled loudly enough for a company of dwarves to be roused by the noise, but they did not seem suspicious of the six elves who lay apparently sound asleep in their camp--with no watchers and fifteen horses. From his vantage point, Legolas could see Tathar in the center, lying in a most unnatural position--undoubtedly with both of his knives in his hands and his bow well within reach.

Langcyll was also “asleep” in the back of the camp, where the orcs were approaching first, their own swords and knives gleaming dully in the dark. The orc in the lead crept on until he and five others were within feet of their prey. Legolas was all but holding his breath, and certain that the pounding of his heart would give them all away.

The first orc bent toward Langcyll, knife aimed for his throat--then quicker than lightning, a white hand shot from beneath the blanket and with a deafening shriek, the orc was down with his own knife buried to the hilt beneath his chin. At the cry, Legolas loosed his waiting arrow, and the orc threatening Tathar fell dead. Then the battle cry went up from both sides, and orcs and elves flung themselves into combat.

It could hardly be considered a battle even by boyish bravado. A hail of arrows took down more than half of the orcs before they could get to the bedrolls--which were already empty because the occupants had sprung to their feet. Legolas leapt over his bush for better aim and shot the orcs, one after another, as instinct took over for consciousness. Langcyll’s arms moved so swiftly that they blurred, his knives flashing in each hand, catching any orc that came too close. It took little time for the remaining orcs to break and flee, and Legolas was forced to lower his bow as the warriors pursuing them got into his path.

He was about to rejoin the others in the camp when the bushes rustled near him and with a screech, a lone orc lunged out, wounded in the side by an arrow. Legolas drew his knife, ducking under a wildly-swung orc sword, then swept his arm around to stab the vile creature in the shoulder. The sword dropped and with his other knife, Legolas slashed through the orc’s neck. He glanced about, listening for more attackers, but a few final shrieks beyond the camp told him the last of the band had been dispatched. With distaste, Legolas retrieved both his knives and his bow, and went to join the other warriors.

Langcyll was returning from the other side of the camp just as Legolas arrived, joining the rest of the company, “Are all accounted for?”

“Both orcs and elves, Langcyll,” Gwilwileth said. “The enemy’s creatures are all slain. None of our number are wounded.”

Langcyll nodded, “That is well.”

Legolas wondered why the captain looked so troubled. In a low voice, he asked Langcyll, “Is something else amiss?”

Langcyll gazed at his youngest warrior, “Only that such a great band of orcs would have ventured so deep into Mirkwood that they were driven out only after the departure of our war parties. The foul creatures of Mordor grow disturbingly bold as the shadow over our realm darkens. They cannot be unrelated.” He gestured briskly to Legolas and the other warriors, “Make certain to collect your arrows. We shall break camp and get an early start.”

As the company prepared for departure, Tuilinn (the warrioress with whom Tathar had been flirting the evening before) asked, “I wonder if that party of dwarves encountered these orcs. There were not many of them.”

“It’s no concern of ours,” Fanfirith told her. “Dwarves always take care of themselves.”

Legolas glanced about him as he gathered the remainder of his pack. He had not seen Tathar since the attack started. Suddenly, an arrowhead, one of his own and coated thoroughly with slime, was shoved into his view, followed by a broken shaft. “You’ll have to mend that.”

“My thanks,” Legolas replied wryly, taking both from Tathar’s hand. “I doubt if I shall have time just now. I could not see you after the fighting broke out. Where have you been?”

“Hiding beneath my bedroll, of course.”

“Ah.”

“How many orcs did you take?” his friend asked, they finished packing their horses.

Legolas blinked, “I’ve no idea.”

Tathar snorted, “You did not bother to keep count? I took three.”

“Tathar, I hardly think it is a matter to crow about.”

“Mount up,” came Langcyll’s order from the front of the group.

As they rode out, the eastern sky growing red as dawn approached, Tathar whispered, “Admit it, you dissembler, you got a thrill from your first battle.”

Legolas rolled his eyes, “Even a first-century novice would be hard pressed to qualify that as a battle, my friend. But if you ask whether I feel pleasure in taking the life of any living thing, I would truthfully say no.”

“Pfft.”

“However, between your riotous behavior and your snorts, one might yet mistake you for a novice.”

“And your jests are as weak as ever!”

“Hah!”

***

Two weeks later, the noon sun found the company riding over rolling hills that would slowly steepen into the Grey Mountains. Legolas and Tathar found themselves once again in the center of the group. While Tathar still desired be free from all restraint, Legolas only wished he did not have to constantly rein Lanthir in, for the horse preferred to ride faster than the pace Langcyll was setting. But there was no point in pushing the horses hard so early in the journey; the mountains would soon be upon them and force them to slow.

“The foothills themselves seem steep enough,” Legolas remarked to Thalatirn, who rode beside him. “Is it difficult for the horses in the mountains?”

“Difficult, but not impossible,” Thalatirn replied. The sturdy, dark-haired warrior was only a century older than Legolas, but had been on twelve mountain missions. “Once into the high hills, we shall dismount and lead them over.”

“It will be a long trip,” Tathar mused, staring apprehensively at the high, grey peaks. “Can many orcs survive such inhospitable conditions?”

“Nay, not directly upon the face of the slopes, but there are caves to provide shelter enough for many bands, should they be forced to take refuge there,” Gwilwileth told him.

“You do not think they would have already hidden themselves in the mountains?” Legolas asked, feeling an inner shiver at the thought of untold armies of orcs waiting in caves to spring with swords and arrows--and avalanches.

“It is unlikely,” Langcyll had been listening. Now he called back to them, “Until now, we have sought only to keep them from entering the Mirkwood itself, and they have never been pursued far beyond our borders. But they continue to plague us and other travelers on the roads between Mirkwood, Imladris, and Lórien, and the dwarves complain that we have driven them toward Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills without bothering to send warning.”

“As if the dwarves would do such a thing for us,” scoffed Galithil.

Legolas nearly asked the others about the nature of the conflict between the dwarves and elves--it had existed as long as he had been living, but none had ever bothered to explain it to him. Now he realized how incredibly ignorant he was of life outside Mirkwood, and the thought disgusted him. He could not now bring himself to admit it to the group.

“Never mind the dwarves, we shall not be seeing much of them until we are south of Imladris,” Langcyll was saying. “And from the looks of the mountains, it may be a few years yet.”

“How will we cover all that ground even in that time?” Tathar asked, looking daunted by the massive slopes and high peaks.

“We are not the only party scouring the mountains, Tathar. Others will search the areas we do not cover. The fell creatures of Mordor shall find little hope of escape.”

***

That night…

“He lies!”

The warriors burst into laughter as Legolas pointed in outrage at Tathar, “It was you who stole Narbeleth’s knife, you fraudster!”

“That was not I, that was Candrochon!” Tathar protested, raising his hands defensively. “I was on a hunt with Eregdos--Tuilinn was there, she will bear me out.”

From the opposite side of the fire, Tuilinn laughed, “He speaks the truth; I remember Tathar was there. I also remember him planting sour grapes among Fimsigil’s rations during that trip.” Tathar winced, and Legolas laughed in turn.

“May the Valar spare us from novice pranks,” Langcyll remarked to Elunen, who was standing watch.

“Come, come, my friend, I recall you having delivered your share of torment to your masters during your training,” the warrioress replied with a smile, not taking her gaze from the base of the hill where the warriors had made camp for the night.

“I was at least skilled enough never to be caught,” Langcyll said with dignity. The other warriors turned and stared in mock-astonishment that their venerable captain might at one time have behaved with such immaturity.

Gwilwileth placed another sausage over the fire, “Prince Legolas’s sister, the Princess Limloeth, was quite a prankster in her time, as I recall. During her second century of training, she once rigged the overhead targets with sacks of mud so that they would fall upon any unfortunate archer who shot them.”

“Ai!” Tathar made a face.

Legolas grinned, “Limloeth remains a mischievous spirit; I can well imagine her doing such a thing.”

Langcyll, munching on an apple, smiled at the prince, “It seems to run in the family, my lord; do not think I did not know it was you who put my bow in the topmost branches of that tree many years ago.”

“Aha! Now the truth is revealed!” Tathar exclaimed, pointing accusingly at Legolas, who grinned and blushed sheepishly.

“Why did you not accuse me then?” he asked Langcyll.

“I’d no proof, but you were the only one of the novices light enough to climb so high,” the captain replied blithely.

“However did you finally get it down?” Tathar demanded.

“With a great deal of ingenuity.”

As the other elves laughed harder and Langcyll turned to speak to Elunen, Legolas said defensively, “You were still the premiere trickster of us all, Tathar, so do not gloat too loudly.”

“Indeed,” Fandoll chuckled. “It was Tathar who took all the quivers and dumped the arrows into a pile before your practice once.”

“Untrue, that was Merilin!”

“No indeed, my boy, Lady Merilin may have instigated that lark, but it was you who carried it out.” (Fandoll had been the novice master who taught Legolas and his friends the art of making and mending their bows and arrows.)

Whatever retort Tathar made, Legolas did not pay attention. Elunen and Langcyll were now speaking urgently with one of the other warriors on watch, for something had drawn Elunen’s attention. Legolas shut out the cheerful conversations around him and discreetly scanned the rocky hillside.

For a brief second, upon a neighboring hill, he saw reflected light--not bright like water or metal, but faint, and it was instantly gone. Like flame reflected in the eye of an animal. He could not hear well for the rather loud discourse among the elves, but he thought there was more movement on the hills closer to the mountains. Were it a normal animal, the creatures would not take such pains to conceal their presence.

*So, the fell creatures of Mordor have beaten us to the mountains. If their numbers are large, they shall be able to prepare traps for us in many places.*

Langcyll returned to the fire and rejoined the chatter, while whetting his long knife. Legolas stared at the captain, who replied calmly, “We know the enemy awaits us, but there is naught else we can do tonight. To break camp and seek them out in the dark would give them too great a warning of our intentions. Soon we shall begin to hunt by night as we move further into the mountains.”

“Do they not mean to attack us here, then?”

“I suspect they will try before dawn to catch us unawares. It never ceases to amaze me how orcs can fight elves for so long and yet learn nothing of our ways.” Legolas thought it would never cease to amaze him how Langcyll could speak so casually of such things.

They posted five guards that night. Though the others knew of the orcs lurking in the hills around them, they seemed content to sleep. But Legolas and Tathar were far too uneasy to sleep, so both volunteered for watch. *I suppose in time I shall get used to this,* Legolas thought as he stood on the edge of the camp, listening to the sounds of orcs moving about in the distance. *Perhaps when I am weary enough it will not be so hard to sleep in the shadow of danger.*

For the moment, all he could do was stand there and fidget. From a leaf on a nearby bush, he watched the stately progress of a moth emerging from its chrysalis. In spite of his anxiety, he smiled, *And even in the face of shadow and fear, new life comes.* It was a comforting sense, as the insect began fluttering its wings to dry them. *His wings shall be dry in twenty minutes, and he will be able to fly. Would that I had been able to enter the world so fast.*

Then the ominous noise of many orcs drew his attentions back to the danger the camp faced. The creatures appeared to have gathered into a group, and were now moving fast--straight towards the camp. The sounds grew louder, and closer. Legolas looked across the camp just as Langcyll woke the others with a sharp clap. There would be no opportunity for a neatly executed ambush tonight. “Make ready! They come!”

Nathron, one of the other watchers, readied his bow and called out, “Will we hold our position or go to meet them?”

“We hold here. There are not enough of them to form a siege. They will try, and retreat when they fail. It will be over then until they can draw reinforcements. Legolas, Tathar, help guard the horses,” the captain snapped.

Legolas darted across the camp to where Tuilinn, Elunen, Fandoll, and Glanaur already stood waiting for the assault. This would most definitely qualify as a battle. Elunen motioned him to her side, “Listen, Legolas. How many do you hear?”

“Forty, perhaps more,” Legolas said, feeling his heartbeat quicken. But at the same time, he knew there was no time to dwell upon fear, only concentration at what must be done for the warriors, the horses, and himself to survive. “They will come in a fast, hard assault and try to overwhelm us with numbers.”

“They will fail, my friend,” the warrioress said resolutely. In spite of his tension, Legolas felt gratified. *She did not call me ‘my lord.’*

The sounds were clear now, the swiftly moving feet and guttural growls. *They do not charge yet. They save their speed to try and escape our arrows as they come down the hill.* Legolas thought, his breath coming faster with every second. *They shall make for the main camp first. I must pick off as many as I can before they reach us. Then it shall be knife work.*

He could feel Elunen on his left, Tathar on his right, their bows ready to guard the horses and aid their companions. The orcs were on the northern slope of the hill, having come down from the mountains, and charging for the top. They were coming hard now, and Legolas could feel the charge in the ground beneath his feet, though he could not yet see them. *Being below them, we are at a disadvantage.* He heard the battle cries starting. *They are coming…now!*

Like an explosion of ants from a disturbed nest, the dark shapes of loathsome orcs poured over the top of the hill and charged down the southern side towards the fifteen elven warriors. Legolas bent his bow along with the rest and fired, dropping the front most. Still they came. Another volley of arrows were released, and another line went down. Then the orcs released their own arrows, and Legolas flinched as he felt one sweep just past his ear. Several yards away, he saw Langcyll use an arrow in his hand to stab an orc in the throat, then notched the arrow onto his bow and let it fly into the heart of another. In spite of his own predicament, Legolas thought, *I must remember that!*

Still they came, a great boiling mass of vile creatures, swords and spears waving, charging at an uncontrollable speed down the hillside. They would plow right into the waiting elves. Legolas fired off several more arrows, dropping four, but the front most had raised their shields and charged even harder. *They seek to knock us to the ground and hold us until they can finish us off. I must not go down in this chaos.*

The orcs now divided, having picked out their individual foes, and a goodly number of them were heading straight for Legolas and his comrades. Legolas actually met the eyes of one of the fiends and knew he had been marked out. Then Elunen shouted, “Forward!” and he drew both of his knives and ran to meet his foe.

The orcs had built up great speed, and Legolas ran straight towards them. But even as one drove straight at him, shield ready to knock him from his feet, the young warrior pivoted to one side, deflecting rather than taking the full blow. Even so, the shock of the impact swept painfully up his arms. He dodged the sword of another and swept his knife into a random orc arm, forcing it to drop its blade. The first came back, sword in one hand, shield in another. Legolas dodged sweeping blows and lunged with his knife. A blow from the shield threw him aside and nearly off his feet. He spun to plunge his knife into the chest of another beast that tried to catch him from behind, then whirled away to escape the sword of the first.

All around him were fighting bodies, elves and orcs, the sounds of clanging metal, sweeping weapons, and cries of pain--from both sides. The company would not escape unscathed this time. Langcyll and Tathar were back-to-back, taking a furious assault but holding it off with their knifes. Legolas moved back rapidly as the first orc came at him again, waiting this time for the creature to charge him first. It came, sword lunging straight to wound him, then suddenly swiped at him, and Legolas only just managed to dive out of the way. The orc tried to strike his head with its shield, but Legolas rolled aside and delivered a fierce kick to knock the shield aside. Then he was up, and slashed the creature’s shoulder, forcing it to drop its weapon. With a second, slashing blow to the neck, his enemy was dispatched.

“Legolas!” Glanaur shouted, and the young warrior saw two orcs making for the horses, hoping to kill them and prevent the elves from making a quick escape.

Legolas charged, shoving his knives into his belt and seizing his bow from the ground in a sweeping motion, then drew and fired twice, dropping one. The other caught the arrow in his shield and turned from the horses, heading for Gwilwileth’s unprotected back. “Beware!” Legolas shouted to her, frantically going for another arrow.

Even as he ran, a flicker of movement to his right was the only warning of his peril, and he barely managed to jerk aside as fire streaked along the top of his shoulder from a knife intended for his neck. With a hiss of surprised pain, Legolas lashed out with his fist, catching the orc who had nearly caught him and knocking it nearly five feet. That gave him the time to use his bow, and send an arrow straight between its eyes.

Two of the best archers, Fanfirith and Nathron , stood atop rocks and had begun picking off the orcs from above. Legolas saw a likely spot to do the same and headed for it, but three orcs apparently guessed his intentions and charged him. He took one down with his bow, then tossed it aside and drew his knives, hustling back towards a small tree and nearly tripping over a root. He knocked aside the spear of the first, driving it into the second, and grabbed a branch and swung himself up, kicking out with both legs to knock down one of them. The second menaced him with a wickedly curved dagger, and he dodged several swings. The second was rising, *I must dispatch this one before the other is up,* and Legolas suffered a slice on the right arm to grab the orc’s wrist--how revolting it was to touch the thing--and yank it to where he could cut its throat. He dropped the carcass, yanked his knife free, and a neat throw buried it in the skull of the one with the spear. He seized his bow, crossed the remaining strides to the small height in a few bounds, leapt upon it, and began shooting.

From above, it was clear that the elves were winning this battle. Orc corpses littered the main part of their camp, and the fighting warriors were no longer set upon from all sides. Legolas shot one menacing Fandoll with a sword and received a grateful wave, then took down a pair trying to pin Langcyll. He aimed for one trying to spear Elunen from behind, but Tathar appeared and caught it first with his knives. All at once, an unearthly screech filled the air, painful on his ears, and the scant dozen orcs still living broke and ran back up the hill. Legolas, Fanfirith, and Nathron shot half of them before the rest were over the top and out of range of their arrows.

Breathing heavily, Legolas stood where he was, trying to bring his spinning mind down to a sensible speed. Jumping down from his position, he knew all too clearly what distinguished this as a battle. Many of the warriors were bleeding, and some looked to be in considerable pain. Legolas faltered, uncertain of whom to run to first, then saw Gwilwileth on the ground near the horses. She had not heard his earlier shout of warning and the orc had caught her from behind. He rushed to her side. “I am not badly hurt,” the warrioress said through clenched teeth, clutching her side tightly.

“Legolas!” Langcyll shouted. “Bring her to the center of camp. Fandoll, start some water boiling on the fire and begin readying bandages. We must have light, Tathar, relight the torches around the camp. Fanfirith, Nathron, bring the athelas and the other herbs. Make haste!”

As Legolas swung Gwilwileth’s other arm over his shoulders and supported her to where the wounded were being treated. Pulling aside the bloodstained tunic, he wrapped affixed an athelas-soaked pad of bandage against the ugly stab wound in his companion’s side, then wrapped bandages around her waist. “My thanks, Legolas. Naught else ails me,” she said, patting his arm gratefully. “See to Glanaur; he bleeds too much.”

Again, the pace of time seemed to speed, as Legolas helped bandage Glanaur’s deeply-gouged leg. Then he removed an arrow from Tuilinn’s shoulder, splinted Thalatirn’s sprained wrist, and examined the deep bruise on Edlothia’s forehead, concerned that she might have been concussed.

“Thank the Valar there were no serious injuries,” Langcyll muttered as he walked up to see how the wounded were faring. “Do not neglect yourself, Legolas.”

“Sir?” Legolas blinked in confusion, and the captain gestured to his arm and shoulder, both of which began to throb on cue. “Oh.” *Strange, I had stopped noticing it.*

Tathar returned to the campfire and clicked his tongue at Legolas, “You never could duck fast enough. Here, let me.” He seized a roll of bandages and some of the athelas salve, and gestured authoritatively for Legolas to hold out his arm.

“You did not escape unscathed yourself, my friend,” Legolas replied, noting the bloody scrape on Tathar’s forehead and the torn tunic and black bruise near his collarbone.

Elunen walked briskly over to check on them, “So now you’ve both shed and spilt your first blood. At this rate, you shall be as seasoned as any of us by the time this mission ends. Make sure to clean off that orc slime before you dress the cuts, Tathar,” she added.

“Some water, please, Fandoll,” Tathar said. Allowing himself to be attended to gave Legolas time to slow his still-frantic heartbeat. Tathar had always been good at dressing injuries--the Mirkwood healers had considered it a waste when his friend chose to become a warrior instead. Legolas had always envied him his skill at healing.

Langcyll was pacing about restlessly, looking very troubled. “Will this attack delay as very much?” Legolas asked him.

“Not at all. None of us will be prevented from traveling by our injuries; we will ride at dawn as planned.”

“Dawn?” Legolas was surprised. Surely it was almost dawn by now--he looked up. The moon and stars had not moved at all in the eternity that the battle had lasted. Even the clouds had scarcely traveled in the sky. Feeling confused, Legolas glanced around him, and his gaze fell upon the bush where he had been standing watch before--as a moth fluttered its wings one last time and took off into the air. Legolas was astonished. *All that in only twenty minutes?*

***

As Langcyll had predicted, the wounded members of the party were more than recovered enough to travel by dawn. “Break camp!” Elunen ordered as Tathar checked Edlothia’s head wound once more.

As they assembled the horses, Langcyll assigned positions. “We shall ride two by two. Fanfirith and Nathron, take the front scout positions. Fandoll and Caranaur, in the back. Edlothia and Gwilwileth behind me, Tathar and Legolas behind them, Glanaur and Tuilinn shall follow, then Thalatirn and Galithil, Elunen shall bring up the rear.”

Legolas and Tathar mounted and entered the formation, only then did they realize that they were no longer in the most protected position in the group. They exchanged astonished glances as Langcyll looked back at them. Seeing their pleased expressions, the archer captain smiled briefly before raising his hand, “Forward!”

*****

 

FIFTEEN WARRIORS IN LEGOLAS’S MISSION:

Langcyll--captain of the company, ranking warrior of Mirkwood, Legolas’s novice master  
Elunen--Langcyll’s second-in-command  
Gwilwileth, Glanaur --warrior captains of Limloeth’s generation, Langcyll and Elunen’s lieutenants  
Fandoll, Fanfirith, Nathron --other senior warriors, experienced enough to start leading missions  
Tuilinn, Edlothia, Galithil, Fandoll, Thalatirn, Caranaur--experienced but young warriors, a few centuries older than Legolas, not seasoned enough to command yet  
Legolas, Tathar--first-year warriors, just came of age, have a long way to go yet before they’re considered seasoned

Lanthir--Legolas’s horse  
Sadron--Tathar’s horse

Other War Parties:  
The Lonely Mountain mission--led by Eregdos, a warrior captain, and Legolas’s friend Candrochon is a member  
The Anduin mission--led by Narbeleth, a warrior captain, and Legolas’s friend Merilin is a member


	8. The Apple Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

A year and a half later…

“Twelve!” Tathar announced by way of greeting as he rejoined Legolas.

Legolas did not reply but narrowed his eyes at the surrounding boulders, certain that the company had not taken the entire band. Tathar was about to speak when the first rays of the sun broke over the mountainside. Two orcs, unable to remain hiding from their pursuers, burst from among the rocks and dashed up the hillside, grunting and screeching in the light. Tathar went for his bow, but Legolas drew two arrows and shot them both cleanly.

With a sly smile, Legolas turned back to his friend. “Eighteen.”

Tathar looked disgusted, “I thought you did not like to crow over killing orcs.”

“It was you who goaded me into it, my friend. You’ve none to blame but yourself.”

“Come, both of you, we must ride,” Langcyll called to them. “Winter comes and we have many peaks yet to scale if we wish to reach Rivendell by summer.”

***

“Beware making loud noises, lest we bring an avalanche upon us,” Langcyll cautioned the warriors as they led their horses through a snow-covered mountain pass.

Legolas looked apprehensively up at the huge deposits of snow on the cliffs above them. This blizzard seemed to be lasting forever, and the wind added still more snow to the drifts, which seemed mountains in themselves. The thought of rock avalanches in these mountains had always weighed upon his mind, but the idea of being buried under a snowdrift was not exactly pleasing either. He tugged his winter cloak tighter around him and picked up the pace, wishing he and Tathar had not offered to bring up the rear during this leg of the journey.

After that first real battle in the foothills, Langcyll had said it was a bad sign that they should engage the orcs so soon into the mission. He had been proven right; the Grey Mountains had been infested with the foul creatures, and the Misty Mountains were proving little better. Elunen said that Legolas and Tathar had fought more orcs in the past eighteen months than she had in her first century of adulthood.

Legolas did not find himself thinking much of home. Their remote positions in the mountains and the speed of their travel made it next to impossible for messages to be sent, and they had received no news of Mirkwood since they had met one of the other parties in the foothills during the second month of their journey--more than a year before. All was as well as could be expected in such times, they had been told. Legolas had been unable to suppress a wince when he had heard one of those warriors saying that King Thranduil had become dispirited and ill-tempered in recent weeks. He sometimes wondered now how time had affected his father’s feelings about his departure. But for the most part, he was glad to have no way of knowing.

“Daydreaming again, my lord?”

Legolas looked at Tathar and shook his head in disgust. All of the other warriors had ceased addressing him by his title save Tathar--who did so only to irritate Legolas. “Anything to take my mind off you as my partner,” he replied glibly.

Tathar chuckled, afraid to laugh loudly while they were in the pass, though the scream of the wind stole almost all sound away. “This winter shall be a bore. Any sensible orc will have holed himself up in a cave until warmer weather.”

“Sensible orc is a contradiction in terms, Tathar,” Tuilinn called from in front of them. The other warriors laughed and nodded agreement.

“Perhaps, but orcs will survive even less in the snow than hobbits,” Elunen remarked. “We will see little of them until spring comes, but I doubt we shall be bored. Not all fell creatures are hampered so by snow.”

“Wargs, perhaps?” Legolas asked.

“I think so. They would not try to hunt a party as large as ours under normal circumstances, but this season has forced much of their game from their trails. Hunger may drive them to come for us.”

“They shall have to form a very great pack to threaten us,” Tuilinn said dubiously.

“Given the choice between a fast death on a hunt and slow starvation, they will cast their lot while they’ve still the strength to attack. Guard your horses well; a desperate warg will choose the easiest prey it can,” Langcyll advised the group.

Legolas felt Lanthir tug on his lead, and he chuckled, patting the horse’s nose. “Fear not, my friend, I shall never let any harm come to you,” he murmured.

The wind had picked up, blowing snow into the faces of the elves as they continued their long walk through the pass over rapidly rising snowdrifts. The elves themselves could walk upon the drifts with little difficulty, but for their mounts, it was another matter. “This pass will soon be completely blocked,” Gwilwileth said. “We should hurry or the horses will be trapped.”

So loud was the wail of the wind through the pass that it was nearly impossible to distinguish the wind from another howl that rose through the blowing snow. But Legolas heard it, as did Langcyll. “You were more right than you know, Elunen. Already they watch us.”

“From where?” the others looked up along the cliffs.

“All about!” Legolas exclaimed, squinting through the blowing snow to see dark shapes upon the white cliffs. It was very odd; the wargs stood motionless, in plain view of the elves. “Why are they just standing there?”

“It is not like wargs. They await something…” Langcyll leapt upon a larger drift and put his hand to the canyon wall. He jumped down, “Quickly! The snowdrift has weakened! An avalanche comes!”

The warriors put their heads forward and charged through the snow, yanking their frightened horses behind them. Legolas now heard the creaking of ice and rock over the storm and the howling wargs, as the weight of the snow deposits grew too great for the cliffs to bear. *The wargs hope the avalanche will bury us and then they shall take us as we come up. Or if we should perish beneath it, they hope to dig us out.* He urged Lanthir harder as the cracks of the ice and rock grew louder.

“It is not much further! Hurry!” Langcyll shouted, seeing the end of the pass before them.

Large lumps of snow had begun to fall, as a precursor to the massive collapse that approached. If the elven warriors left the horses and run across the snow, they would surely make it. But none would leave his mount, and their survival in this unusually-harsh winter depended upon the supplies the horses carried. Legolas heard a collective howl rise from the watching wargs, and looked up in alarm as the triumphant cry was drowned out by a still-greater noise. With a great roar, a massive wave of snow spilled down the steep mountain slopes into the pass--directly onto the company.

Legolas continued to charge for the exit, but knew there was no chance. He hoped some of the others might get through. Next to him, the horses screamed, Tathar yelped, and Legolas gasped, raising a hand in futile defense as a thundering wall of snow slammed into him, flinging him to the ground beneath its massive weight. For several moments, he blacked out.

***

Returning to consciousness was a strange experience. Legolas found himself lying flat, facedown, and for a moment he felt suspended in cold air. Forcing his eyes open, he realized he was encased completely in tightly-packed snow, so deep that all around him was darkness. He was also bitterly cold. *I must get out soon. New air will not reach me beneath this drift.* The elf swiftly began to claw at the snow around him, trying to give himself space to turn over. Then it occurred to him--*Which way is up?*

Fighting the urge to panic, he flailed against the snow and ice, praying that he was moving in the right direction. He was not yet in danger of freezing to death, and the snow was not packed tightly enough to smother him, but if the oxygen in the trapped air around him ran out, he would die of deprivation. His mind was beginning to race, *What of Tathar? He was beside me. If he too is trapped, I’ve no way to aid him. And Lanthir and the others--*

The young warrior forced himself to focus on digging, though the cold--or perhaps it was decreasing air--made him feel sluggish. *I do not want to die this way…I must get out.* He managed to twist himself around so he faced the direction he thought was up, and continued to push the snow from over his head, trying to swim his way out. A rock above him barred his way, and as he wriggled it to dislodge it, the snow suddenly shifted--falling and encasing him as tightly as before.

*No! I must get out! I will not last much longer!* though the air was not completely cut off, Legolas knew he was running out of oxygen. His head was beginning to swim, and he felt detached. *I…must concentrate…must keep digging…I cannot…* But his arms and legs would no longer obey him. The snow no longer felt cold around him, and his mind wandered. Limloeth said had said they would meet again. How upset she would be when she learned Legolas had perished. He wondered if she had married Orthelian yet. *I did not mean for another of us to die after an avalanche. For that I am sorry.*

An even deeper blackness was now sweeping over his vision, *How strange. Even now I am not sorry I joined this mission. I hope the others escape the snow and the wargs…at least the company would go on…* He was so disoriented that he did not realize his eyes had closed. *At least I had the chance…I was a warrior…for Mirkwood…* Had he been able to see, he would have realized the snow was growing lighter above him as the upper layers of the drift were dug away. But the last vestiges of consciousness were leaving him.

*Father…*

***

More than half of the company had escaped the pass before the avalanche struck. Langcyll turned back and cried, “No!” as the white wave swept over six members of his party and their horses, burying them deep.

No sooner had the snow settled than the nine remaining warriors flew back out into the pass, digging frantically into the snow. “Quickly!” Langcyll cried, struggling to suppress panic and despair. “They will not live long under such weight! We must get them out!”

“Langcyll, the wargs!” Tuilinn shouted, pointing as the dark shapes above them began to make their way down.

“We don’t have time for this,” the captain growled as he dug. “Take over!” he ordered Nathron to continue where he had been digging and went for his bow. “Gwilwileth, help hold off the wargs. The rest of you, dig! Dig with all your might!”

He took aim at the warg already descending onto the snowdrift from the rocks and fired, planting an arrow right in its skull. The thing dropped and he aimed at another, not yet a threat to the diggers, but within range. An arrow from Gwilwileth struck another, and it fell onto the snow with a shriek. Langcyll and Gwilwileth kept up their defense as the warriors continued their desperate digging. *It is my duty to protect my warriors. I cannot let them die beneath a snowdrift. We must be in time!*

“Langcyll!” Nathron shouted. The captain turned his gaze briefly from the wargs--who were now hesitating to approach the snowdrifts--to see Nathron had a firm grip upon a hand sticking out from the snow. “Hold on, I have you,” Nathron said to the trapped elf, pulling with all his might.

All at once, the snow disgorged its prisoner. It was Elunen, coughing and gasping, but unharmed. Beneath her, they found Fandoll and Glanaur, and their horses feet away. “Caranaur, Tathar, and Legolas remain missing,” Fanfirith said anxiously. “We are running out of time!”

“Keep digging!” Langcyll snapped, readying an arrow as a hungry warg took a few cautious steps forward on the higher rocks, obviously debating whether to attempt a descent. Langcyll doubted the creatures would attempt it, but just to discourage any others, he shot it. *These foul beasts will not fall upon my warriors when we are rescuing our comrades.*

“Here!” Edlothia and Fandoll shouted simultaneously.

They pulled Caranaur from the snow, and found him disoriented and suffering from oxygen deprivation. The fresh air brought him around, but Langcyll thought anxiously, *We must find Legolas and Tathar before they run out of air entirely.* The wargs seemed to have given up, so Langcyll ordered Gwilwileth to continue watching and joined the effort, his arms churning through the snow. It seemed with every second that passed that he could see his two youngest warriors trapped within the snow’s grip, gasping for breath.

A cry went up again, and Galithil and Thalatirn pulled Tathar from the snow, gasping and semi-conscious. “Legolas, Legolas…”

“Peace, Tathar. Catch your breath,” Tuilinn said as the others resumed their frantic search. “We shall find him.”

“Legolas cannot be far, he and Tathar were together when it hit,” Thalatirn said, and the warriors focused their search close to where Tathar had been found. They discovered the last two horses, but not Legolas, and the elves were beginning to despair. Had the avalanche claimed their prince?

Langcyll reached as deep into the snow as he could, his arms sweeping through for some sign of the last missing warrior. *No…no…* All at once, his hand struck something that was neither a root nor a rock. With a shout, the captain all but dove beneath the snow, burrowing toward the object before him. The other elves converged on the spot, and moments later, Langcyll dragged Legolas free. The young elf was completely limp, and his eyes were closed.

“Does he breathe?” gasped Galithil, as the warriors came rushing forward.

“Stand back, give him air!” Langcyll said sharply, easing Legolas onto the snow. He felt frantically under the prince’s chin and gasped with relief--the heartbeat was there. And he was breathing, albeit shallowly. “He is alive. He will be all right,” the captain sighed, trying to slow his pounding heart. At the sight of his youngest warrior’s closed eyes, he had feared the worst. *Thank the Valar I did not lose him.*

Looking around, Langcyll frowned, “They will all need time to recover, but we cannot remain here. Can the horses travel?”

Edlothia nodded, “All of them. Even the ones trapped are none the worse for wear.”

“Come. Carry any who cannot walk. We are too exposed here, and we must find shelter from the storm and the wargs. Be on your guard; they know we have some wounded, and they may grow bolder given the opportunity. Gwilwileth, Thalatirn, flank us with your bows. Edlothia in front and Galithil behind. The rest of you, lead the horses. Quickly.” With that, Langcyll picked up Legolas and carried him swiftly over the snow to where the others were waiting. Elunen, Fandoll, and Glanaur were able to walk, but Caranaur, Tathar, and Legolas were still too weak. The warriors hurried out of the pass, and those who looked back saw the wargs descending, keeping out of range of the arrows but following nonetheless.

The company soon found what they were looking for; a wide-mouthed cave suitable for shelter. Scouting such a thing was not a job for volunteers--no elf would go far underground in a strange cave by choice. Still, a reluctant exploration revealed the cave to be little more than a hole in the mountainside that did not go deep, but provided sufficient cover for the warriors and their horses.

By the time they reached moved inside, Tathar and Caranaur were able to stand on their own, but Legolas remained unconscious. Tathar refused to budge from his friend’s side while the others made camp. “His eyes remain closed. Why does he not wake?” the young warrior demanded.

“He is badly bruised. He was not far from the opposite wall of the canyon,” Elunen reasoned, “or he may have been struck by debris. But his breathing and heartbeat are normal. Have patience. He will recover.” Forcing Tathar to briefly face her instead of Legolas, she dabbed at the raw scratches on the young elf‘s face.

Langcyll stood at the entrance of the cave, where Fanfirith and Thalatirn kept watch. He could hear the howl of wargs over the wind. *If those monstrous wolves think they can take advantage of this misfortune, they are sadly mistaken,* he thought fiercely, scowling out into the blizzard.

“Langcyll!” Elunen called. “Legolas is coming round.”

The captain rushed back to the fireside where Legolas lay wrapped in a blanket, and found that sure enough, the youngest warrior was moaning and tossing his head. “Easy, Legolas, you are safe,” Langcyll said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

The prince’s eyes opened suddenly, though he did not flail or cry out. He looked about him in confusion and asked, “Where are we?”

“Under shelter a ways beyond the pass,” Langcyll told him. “Do you remember?”

Legolas closed his eyes, and his companions saw him fail to suppress a shiver. “An avalanche.” Then his eyes flew open, “Tathar, and the oth--”

“I am here, Legolas,” Tathar laughed a bit shakily. “And everyone is safe. You were the last found.” Legolas seized his friend’s hand in relief.

Rising, Langcyll said, “We shall camp here for the night, and mount a double watch at the entrance. Those who are not on watch, rest. Especially you, Legolas. And I will not insist now, but you must eat ere we depart tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Legolas moved his blanket further from the fire, then lay back down and fell asleep almost at once.

***

Legolas felt well enough, and the others agreed that the company was able to depart soon after dawn. With the orcs in hiding, there was little point in hunting by night, for spiders would not be found in these mountains during the winter and wargs were easier to spot by day.

“I do not know why we refer to sunrise during the winter as dawn at all,” Tathar remarked as he and Legolas walked side by side, as always. “This impenetrable blanket of cloud merely becomes light enough to see by. The sun never shows her face.”

“I never actively disliked winter until now,” Legolas agreed, squinting through the blowing snow. The wargs were howling almost continuously with the wind, and he would have given anything for the sheer noise in these mountains to cease.

On one hand, Legolas was relieved none of the other warriors had been hurt, but on the other, he wished he had not been the only one in serious trouble. His comrades now hovered about him the way they had during the first few days of the journey, and they seemed to have remembered that he was also a prince of Mirkwood. *At least I should have been able to lose this accursed crown in the avalanche,* he thought crossly. By some unhappy chance, it had remained on his head through it all, an ill reminder of the nobility he had spent nearly two years trying to live down.

“So, how do you like the mountains now, young Legolas?” Glanaur teased from beside him.

Legolas smiled wryly, “I think I prefer them green.” The others laughed. It was not the first time during the trip that Legolas had been seriously injured--eight months before, he had taken an arrow clean through the shoulder--but he knew from the others’ behavior that he must have been close to death from lack of oxygen when they found him. It was an unsettling thought, and he would be glad when the colors and smells of spring put it from all their minds.

Ahead, Elunen raised her hand and stopped the party. They were coming to a path between high rocks, relatively shielded from snow but narrow, high-walled, adorned with icicles, with little space to move once inside. Legolas frowned. He could see nothing, but she was right, something was amiss. Then he realized; the warg howling had ceased. And this tight trail would be the perfect place for an ambush.

Langcyll rode to the front to confer with Elunen. “There is no other way short of turning back and rounding this peak in the opposite direction,” he said.

“That would take us through the pass again,” Elunen muttered, grimacing back at Legolas, who was not exactly enthusiastic about the idea himself.

“It is not an option; with all this snow, the pass will be completely blocked by now.” Langcyll scowled, clearly worried. “We must move forward, though they await us.”

“Then let us send some of the part on foot over the rocks on the sides of the path to watch for wargs, and the rest shall lead the horses through,” Elunen suggested.

Langcyll clearly disliked the idea, but apparently could not think of anything better. *And the longer we stand here, the more time the wargs will have to make ready for us,* Legolas thought grimly. *This will not be a pleasant walk.*

“Elunen, you shall take the scouts over the rocks. Half of the party shall go with you. The rest, take two horses each, and have your bows ready. We shall fly as soon as they are in position,” Langcyll ordered.

Legolas and Tathar handed their leads to two of the other warriors, and joined the group following Elunen over the steep rocks, bows ready. There was no doubt in their minds that the wargs waited here, and their only choice was to strike first and secure the trail for their horses. No sooner had Elunen gained the first sharp boulders that a savage growl sounded, and a massive wolf launched itself from between the rocks, aiming to tear out her throat.

The warrioress slid swiftly back down, taking a deep slash in the shoulder from the creature’s claws, but its momentum carried it over her, where it was felled at once by elven arrows. “Come!” she shouted at her companions, and the scouts charged up the rock formations on either side of the trail.

Legolas was not far behind her, and saw great wargs emerging from everywhere, dozens of them. Their hunger had driven them into a massive pack, which dared challenge an elf party in the hopes of staving off starvation. Legolas took his stand to Elunen’s right and drew arrow after arrow, dropping the wolves even as more came charging at them. The other four scouts were encountering the same troubles on the north side of the trail. Behind him, Legolas heard Langcyll shout, “Fly now!” and the warriors led the horses into the path at a run.

Most of the wargs continued to concentrate on the nearest elves, but some soon smelled the horses and went for the trail to spring. Legolas leapt up to the edge of the high rocks and took two of them down. “Legolas!”

Legolas turned on hearing the cry of his name just in time to fling himself to one side as a warg lunged straight for him. His foot slipped on a patch of ice upon the rocks and he went down, frantically trying to catch himself as the warg recovered and went for Tathar, who was aiming at another down the slope. Drawing his knife, Legolas slashed at the warg’s face as it passed, putting out an eye. The creature writhed and screamed, blasting the elf with its hot, foul breath, it was so close. Its jaws open in fury and pain, the warg went for him again, but it could no longer see properly, and Legolas plunged his knife under its chin as it came.

The weight of the wolf knocked him off balance, and over the edge of the high rocks. Everything seemed to slow down. Legolas saw the stone he grabbed to catch himself break loose in his hand, and he hurtled over the edge--the path appeared beneath him, and he could see the expressions of horror on the elves leading the horses through. Rather dispassionately, he thought, *This fall shall likely break my neck.*

All at once, a hand seized his flailing wrist, saving him from a plunge that would seriously injure, if not kill him. Legolas found himself hanging over the side of the rocks, with Tathar gripping his wrist with both hands. “I have you!”

“Tathar!” Legolas cried, seeing a wounded warg dragging itself along the rocks toward them. “Look out!”

“I see it! Pull yourself up!”

Legolas struggled, but the rocks along the edge were coated with slippery ice, and he could not gain a foothold. The warg was coming closer. “You cannot! You must defend yourself!”

“Come ON!” With a fierce yank, Tathar heaved his friend back up onto the rocks, but the momentum flung them both backward and they tumbled together down the rocks again. Legolas righted himself first and gasped as another warg charged straight for his face, but an arrow from Elunen felled it feet away. He and Tathar clambered to their feet as they heard Langcyll’s shouting that the horses were through.

The elves scrambled over the rocks, all too willing to escape the death trap they had found themselves in, and make a stand on safer ground. The wargs were not about to let them escape this place, and swiftly followed. But no sooner had the foul wolves exposed themselves coming down the rocks after the fleeing elves, than they met a barrage of arrows from Langcyll and his group, who waited with the horses. Legolas reached the group, bruised, aching, and breathing hard, and turned back toward the path to see the fallen bodies of the wolves. “We’ll not be dealing with this pack again,” Langcyll said briskly. “Let us go.”

As they led the horses away, Legolas turned to Tathar, “I am in your debt.”

With his characteristic snort, Tathar shook his head, “I am better at keeping tally of dead orcs and wargs than the number of times one of us has saved the other’s life, Legolas. You owe me nothing, for I too should be dead many times over but for you.”

“Besides which,” Elunen said from behind them, “he is your comrade in arms, Legolas. Each member of the party owes a life debt to any and all their comrades from the moment they join. You owe him nothing more than Tathar owes to you or any of the others. It is the way of all warriors.”

“And besides that,” Tathar added, with a sly note in his voice that immediately raised Legolas’s guard, “I believe I passed your score this time. Did you keep count, by any chance?”

Legolas glared at him, but paused with a frown, “Six--no, seven.”

With a sickening grin, Tathar drawled, “Eleven.”

“Curse you!” Tathar, along with the warriors nearest them, burst into laughter, and they continued their snowy walk with lighter hearts.

***

A few days later…

“I think I have seen more blizzards in the past two winters than in all my life before in Mirkwood,” Legolas remarked, shoving snow away from the top of his bedroll.

The company had camped for the night and those elves not on watch had spread their bedrolls under rocks and bushes, trying to find some shelter from the blowing snow and piling drifts. Legolas, Tathar, and Tuilinn were huddled together beneath several leaning rock formations that provided a buffer against the blizzard. But the snow continuously piled up, and Legolas and Tathar had already had one rude awakening when a drift had collapsed into their rock shadow--right onto their heads.

“Now you see why we have so few bad blizzards in Mirkwood,” grumbled Tuilinn from the other side of Tathar, turning over and pulling her blanket more tightly over her. “The storm clouds vent their fury in the mountains most of the time. How I hate winters in the mountains!”

“You knew we would face at least two,” Legolas said to her. “Why did you come?”

Tuilinn had burrowed so deep into her blankets that only her light blue eyes were uncovered, but Legolas sensed she was grinning at him. “Why did you?”

“I wished to…travel far and see much,” Legolas lied slightly. “I had never been to the mountains outside Mirkwood.”

“Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Close that great cavern in your face, Tathar. You are not exactly far-traveled yourself.” Legolas yanked Tathar’s blanket over his friend’s head, muffling a retort. He went on over Tuilinn’s giggles, “But you have done so before, Tuilinn, and you knew what was in store for us. Why did you not go south, or on one of the plains missions, or to Lórien?”

Tuilinn shrugged, “I have been to the mountains before--many times, actually--but never have I crossed them end-to-end. I chose this mission because of its challenges and discomforts, not in spite of them. It is something I have not done, and I will go many places I have not gone. And with Langcyll.”

“He is a great captain,” Tathar said, finally freeing his blanket from Legolas’s hand and pulling it down to his chin. “I am glad he leads us.”

“Did you know that Gwilwileth and Glanaur were asked to lead different war parties and they chose this one? Even the most seasoned warriors will go to great lengths to travel with Langcyll. Fanfirith, Fandoll, and Nathron were all offered command of the Lonely Mountain mission, but they chose instead to travel with Langcyll. Many of us choose to stay with him. He is a worthy leader. And especially during these dark times, it is best to cast one’s lot with the finest of the warriors.” Tuilinn greatly admired the ranking members of their party.

“Strange, is it not, that none of his children became warriors?” mused Tathar.

“Not especially,” Tuilinn replied. “My father was a healer, my mother an artisan, but I chose to be a warrior. They disliked the decision, for they prefer creating to destroying, so they said. I think all children desire to choose their own path, and more often than not, that means picking something different from their parents, to distinguish their own desires from those of their kindred.”

“True,” Tathar agreed. He snickered, “But my parents were both warriors, at least for a time, and I chose to become one to please myself. Do you suppose that reflects badly upon my character?”

“Everything reflects badly upon your character, Tathar,” Legolas said blandly, and then neatly rolled to one side to escape a clout.

Tuilinn giggled, and said, “But your choice was also to your own mind. I think it is a matter of chance whether children will follow in the footsteps of parents. In the end, we all wish to do what we please.”

Legolas had fallen silent during the exchange. Turning over to face away from his friends, he thought, *Father never disapproved of my desire to train as a warrior. He encouraged me to learn the skills. But…when I truly wanted to travel anywhere, that he discouraged. And I have never been easy with this nobility. Was it merely rebelliousness, or am I justified?* He looked at the crown’s silver edge peeking out from his pack. *I do not think it is an active desire to rebel against our parents that makes us choose our path. It is just that often our desires are different, and parents cannot always accept it. I think if Langcyll had been my father, I would still have chosen to be a warrior.*

With a soft “whump,” a pile of snow gave way and fell right onto Tathar and Tuilinn’s heads--their faces had been very close together at the time. Legolas sat up in surprise at their yelps, and began to laugh. “Ai!” Tathar sat up, brushing at the snow and knocking most of it onto Tuilinn. She squealed in protest, and Legolas laughed harder. “Oh, cease, Legolas, and help us get this out before we get wet!”

Struggling to stifle his laughter, Legolas attempted to heave the snow back out, but only succeeded in dislodging more on top of himself. He yelped in turn, and glared at his friends who were now giggling at him. Seizing a handful of snow, he walloped Tathar in the face, earning a cry of protest.

Tuilinn giggled and swiftly fashioned a snowball of her own, wasting no time to pelt Legolas in turn. Tathar leapt upon Legolas then and began attempting to shovel snow into his bedroll. “This is not fair! You cannot--mmph!--both gang up on me!” Legolas exclaimed, wriggling to get free of Tuilinn’s grasp as Tathar dumped snow upon his head.

“You should have thought of that before!” declared Tuilinn, and went for more snow.

Legolas squirmed free and dropped a wet handful of slush down the back of her tunic, laughing as she shrieked. “Aiii! You’ll pay for that, you fiend!”

“Come, then! Take--ai! Let go!”

“Hold him, Tath! I’ve got another one!”

“Get him, Tuilinn, quick!”

“Get off me, you great troll, you could never take me yourself--ow! Tuilinn, there was a rock in that thing!”

“Oh, Legolas, I’m sor--agh! You’re soaking my blanket! Oh, no you don’t, give me that! Ai! Look out, Tath, he‘s got--”

“OW!”

From his own small shelter beneath a stone arch not far away, Langcyll had been watching and listening to the talk of the three young warriors--and grinning to himself as the snow piled higher and higher without their notice. He had predicted that one or all of them would very soon get a cold shower if they did not remember to watch the drifts. But Tathar and Tuilinn had been too interested in each other to see it coming, and Legolas had discreetly been looking the other way. Now Langcyll muffled his chuckles in his arms as a small snow-wrestling match broke out between the three--started by Legolas, to boot.

Langcyll had not been surprised that Legolas had dropped out of the conversation when the subject turned to parents and rebellious children. It was true, Langcyll’s three sons had all chosen the art of something other than war. They all got on well with their father, their interests had simply been different. Langcyll thought, *In the heart of every parent lies the hope that our children will have desires and futures similar to our own, so that we might be better prepared to guide them. But it is unwise to try and force them. We must look for other ways to help them in life.*

With a smile, he watched as Legolas, scrambling to escape the tangled bedrolls, was tackled directly into a snowdrift by Tathar. And the thought came unbidden to his mind, as it had many times during the past eighteen months, and undoubtedly would come again. *Would that he had been my son.*

***

Six months later…

“At last,” Tathar pointed at the small blossoms beginning to open among the grasses that had finally reappeared on the mountainside, gleaming in the moonlight. “I thought that winter would never end.”

The other warriors nodded in agreement. When the first tender shoots of green grass had begun to appear through the blanket of snow, Legolas had found himself mincing as he walked--loathe to step on them. The reappearance of the sun on the slopes had been greeted with great joy.

“We shall be in Imladris within a month,” Langcyll remarked, gazing at the landscape from the high cliff they were passing over.

“I shall die of shock, seeing more than fifteen elves at any given time,” Legolas remarked, and the others chuckled.

Tuilinn, walking close to Tathar, smiled past him at Legolas, “I was the same when I returned from my first long mission. But it is pleasant as well, seeing old friends.”

“I shall be glad to see Imladris again after all this time,” Tathar remarked, ruffling Tuilinn’s unbound hair. During the winter, it had appeared the typical brown of Mirkwood, but with the return of the sun from behind winter’s clouds, Tuilinn’s curly tresses had been brightened to their usual color--an astonishingly rare shade of red. How like Tathar it had been to wind up keeping company with the prettiest of the she-elves in the party.

“When we arrive,” Langcyll was saying in the front of the formation, “we shall stay in Imladris at least a week or two to tell of our mission and hear reports of other journeys from their warriors. Then we shall depart south towards Moria.”

“Wonderful, more dwarves,” groused Galithil.

How many Imladris warriors will join our party?” Legolas asked Elunen, who led her horse just in front of them.

“We’ll not know the exact number until we arrive and hear the stories of the other war parties. There will be much news for us, having been out of contact in the mountains for so long,” the warrioress replied.

Legolas was uncertain of whether hearing all the news of Middle Earth would be a good thing, but Tathar sighed and said eagerly, “These last few weeks shall be unbearable. I cannot wait to see our kindred again.”

“It will be a merry reunion, to be sure,” agreed Elunen. “But we shall likely encounter some of their parties as we draw closer to Rivendell. So we shall hear news of home sooner still.”

Tathar grinned eagerly, “And to think, in spite of all the foul creatures plaguing these mountains, we have arrived without losing a one of our company.”

Elunen had been a warrior captain for many centuries, and the younger elves saw a shadow of memory cross her fair face. With a slight grimace, she murmured, “May the Valar grant that this blessing holds.”

***

With the return of spring had come the old routine of hunting by night and resting by day. “This seems a likely spot,” Langcyll remarked as the company came upon a wide, grassy glade on the mountainside, exposed to the sun’s warmth. The warriors needed no urging to make camp.

Legolas and Tathar spread their bedrolls side by side, as always, then went to look around. “Forget not to get some sleep along with your sightseeing,” Tuilinn called, spreading her bedroll on the other side of Tathar.

“Ah, how glad I am to find sights to see,” Tathar sighed, pointing at an apple tree on the far side of the camp, its branches a mass of pale blossoms.

Legolas followed him closer, peering up and no less pleased by the gleaming sight, although, “What a pity we did not arrive a few months later, for then there would be many apples.”

Tathar shook his head, “Even an apple tree I prefer to see with blossoms, though we cannot yet eat its fruit. It seems a work of art.”

“And for your tastes, Legolas,” Tuilinn joined them, three small dried apples in her hands from the food supplies. Sitting upon a root beneath the tree next to Tathar, she smiled, “But for myself I agree with Tathar, there is no merrier sight than a tree in blossom.”

Tathar smiled at her, and Legolas beat a hasty retreat. Though Legolas considered every one of the company his dearest friends, he had not developed such a fondness for any of the she-elves in the party. Though at times like these, he envied Tathar somewhat, he was content most of the time to be glad for him. The same youthful restlessness that had driven him in horror from the thought of marriage two years ago still gave him no desire to establish lasting relations with anyone.

*I am young and restless yet for such things. There will be time enough for thoughts of love and romance later, when I have seen all I wish to see. I would not wish myself on any maiden in my present adventurous state.*

Three of the other warriors were beginning their watch, and Legolas had no other business to keep him occupied, so he took the opportunity to sleep under the sun. *How pleasant to enjoy a few hours peace here on this hillside. The shadow does not seem so near today.*

***

He awoke with a start some time later, even as the other sleeping elves were rising to Langcyll’s order to begin breaking camp. The sun was nearly down, and Legolas needed no pause for thought to realize what sense had awakened him. “Langcyll!” he called.

“I know. We should have seen the cave on the rock face above us. They will come as soon as the last rays of light have gone. We shall await them.”

“How many?” Tathar asked, rolling up his blankets and carrying them to his horse.

“Not a terribly large band, but if that cave is their stronghold, as Elunen seems to think, they will be especially hot to destroy us. We must be on our guard,” Glanaur told him.

“When are we ever not?” Tathar whispered to Legolas and Tuilinn, who giggled in spite of themselves.

Langcyll had been right; even as the last red beams faded from the sky, a great, awful shrieking arose from the mountain slope above them, and the sound of running feet heralded the approach of an orc band. An arrow embedded itself in the ground near Tathar’s foot, then all the warriors aimed at up the mountainside and loosed their own arrows.

The full moon, rising in a great orange globe on the horizon, provided more than enough light for the archers of both sides. The elves spread out as the orc band--nearly fifty strong--poured toward them. Many fell to elvish arrows, but they kept coming.

“Ai!” an arrow caught Tuilinn in the side where she stood near the apple tree, glowing white in the moonlight. Tathar raced from Legolas’s side and stood protectively before her, bidding her stay against the tree.

The foul beasts tore into the camp site. Legolas drew his knives and awaited their charge as Langcyll continued to shoot. Then the orcs were upon them, and there was little time to think, only to act. Legolas slashed the face of the first creature that came for him, and the arrows of elves and orcs zipped through the air.

He ducked under the swung knife of an orc and stabbed the creature in the gut. A swipe from another caught the flesh of his wrist, but he paid it no need--such nicks were commonplace these days. Four sword-wielding orcs then set upon him at once, and he grabbed a torch and waved them back, his knife in his other hand.

Though they retreated from the torch’s reach, the group of orcs did not desist altogether. One drew an arrow and Legolas danced out of the way. *I must strike or drive some of them off,* he thought swiftly. As he glanced past them at the other fighting forms, movement beneath the glowing tree caught his eye.

 

Time seemed to crawl…

 

Tuilinn, kneeling against the trunk with an arrow in her side, but armed with her bow, was shooting orcs as they came at her and Tathar. But the foul creatures knew one of the pair was wounded, and had begun to concentrate their efforts. Tathar had picked up an orc sword in one hand, his knife in the other, and was fighting fiercely, driving the orcs back.

But still they came, over a dozen. “Tathar!” Legolas cried and charged forward, the torch before him to force the orcs back. But three more had come up behind him, and he was forced to turn and deal with them. *I must get to him before he or Tuilinn are injured more. There are too many for them!* Legolas frantically swept the torch out and set two orcs ablaze, causing the ugly beasts to flee, screaming in agony. He turned back and ran frantically towards the apple tree, but more orcs soon stood in his way.

He could see Tathar sweep the sword and knock aside an arrow aimed for his face. Another pair of orcs wielding knives were shot down by Tuilinn’s arrows. Legolas lost the torch but not before he set another orc on fire. Grabbing a sword of his own, he slashed indiscriminately at every foul beast who blocked his path to his friends’ aid.

Tathar cleaved one orc’s arm right from its body as it came at him with a dagger. Two more came with spears, and Tuilinn shot one between the eyes.

Legolas ducked under a slashing blade and cut the attacking orc’s throat. *Hold on, hold on…*

Tathar lost his sword and instead shoved his knife into the chest of another orc that tried to get past him and attack Tuilinn. But the move put him in front of her bow, preventing her from shooting the orc that came at him with a spear. “Look out!” she screamed.

Tathar turned and raised his knife. Too late.

“NO!!!”

Legolas did not even realize that the cry he heard was his own.

The long orc spear point pierced Tathar’s shoulder, driving him back, his knife flying from his hand, pinning him against the tree trunk. Tuilinn cried out and shot the orc, but the spear left Tathar trapped and helpless. Legolas ran with all his might, sweeping his sword and dismembering anything that got in his way.

Another orc dodged one of Tuilinn’s arrows and came forth with his sword--driving it straight into Tathar’s abdomen, lodging itself in the tree trunk. Then the creature found itself caught from behind, its head driven clean off its body by the sword of Legolas. His eyes stinging, Legolas cried, “Tathar--”

“Beware, Legolas,” Tathar gasped, his eyes behind his friend.

Legolas turned, and swinging with wild rage, tore into the orcs that had dared harm his companions. There were few orcs left to threaten the elves now, and those who remained were attempting to flee the camp. The shrieks of the ones disemboweled by Legolas proved the final warning, and the scant dozen or so remaining orcs broke and ran. A few of the warriors followed to dispatch the ones they could.

Legolas turned frantically back to Tathar. “By the Valar,” he breathed, uncertain of what to do. He knew pulling the sword and spear out would cause Tathar to bleed more, but his friend would not remain upright against the tree much longer, and his weight would widen the wounds. His heart was pounding harder than it had in the worst of the battles. Never before had he known such fear. Choked by panic and despair, he whispered, “Hold on. This will hurt.”

Tathar squeezed his eyes shut and Legolas pulled out spear and sword, then caught his friend as he fell, easing him to the ground with shaking hands.. He was peripherally aware of Tuilinn’s sobs as she watched, but she was not mortally wounded, and he could see nothing but Tathar. Kneeling beside him, Legolas looked in horror at the deep wounds, trying to figure out how to bind them.

Blood ran from his friend’s mouth as Legolas struggled to staunch the flow from his wounds. “You will be all right, you will be all right,” he chanted softly in a trembling voice as he fumbled with the strips he had torn from a stray blanket into makeshift bandages.

Tathar’s hand caught him, “Leave off, Legolas. It is no good.”

“No!” Legolas whispered, appalled, and struggled again to bind the injuries.

Tathar, his face twisted with pain, laughed weakly, “How stubborn you are, as always.”

“I will not let you go,” Legolas growled, as his throat tightened until he could barely breathe, and tears made it difficult to see what he was doing.

Tathar murmured hazily, “You never did know…when to give up…my lord.”

“Do not call me that!” Legolas cried, choking on his sobs.

“It’s…my duty…remember? To tease you…” Tathar’s dark gray eyes drifted closed, and his face had begun to look more relaxed and less pained. Blood was soaking the grass beneath him, and the cloth Legolas was pressing against his wounds. “You-are-noble, Legolas. I’ve…known you all our lives. I should know. Noble in…rank and heart.” Tathar’s breathing was faltering.

“No! You can-not-leave-me! Tathar--” the blood would not stop. Legolas gripped his friend’s shoulders desperately, “No, no…”

“We’ve…been through much…together…my dearest friend. But remember…who we are…warriors. We knew…such-a-thing…might hap-pen. You-will-go-on. You-must.” Forcing his eyes open, and breath into his lungs for the energy for one last act, Tathar reached up and gripped Legolas’s arm in the parting gesture of warriors, “Farewell, Legolas. My friend.”

His arm dropped. The struggling breaths ceased.

Gasping, Legolas fumbled for Tathar’s neck. There was no pulse. Tathar’s eyes had closed. “Tathar?” he whispered, staring in complete disbelief. Weakly, he shook Tathar‘s shoulders as though trying to rouse him. “N-no…” *This cannot be happening this cannot be happening no it is not true it is not real it cannot be--*

“Legolas.”

He heard nothing, sensed nothing, saw nothing save Tathar, still lying there with his eyes closed in that strange fashion. The youngest warrior simply knelt there, oblivious to Langcyll’s quiet call of his name from just behind him, or the other warriors just behind Langcyll, many who wept in despair at seeing one of their comrades slain.

“Legolas.”

*How can he perish? We will be in Imladris in a few weeks. We will see Elladan and Elrohir and Faron and Arwen. I cannot go home without him. What will I tell Merilin and Candrochon and our friends and our families and--*

Hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him anxiously, “Legolas!”

“No!” With a wild cry, like the breaking of a dam, Legolas flung himself across Tathar, pulling the lifeless form into his arms, burying his face in his friend’s black hair as sobs overtook him, shaking his whole body. “No, no, no…”

 

*****


	9. The Nudge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

Berensul and Belhador were speaking to one of the king’s attendants when they heard their brother coming. Glancing up to greet him, Berensul was startled as Legolas flew by, brushing past Limloeth on his way to the royal chambers without a word to any of his siblings. Belhador dismissed the servant and demanded, “What ails him?”

Limloeth walked swiftly over to them, anxiety upon her face, “Did you not see his eyes?” Her brothers shook their heads; they had not been facing Legolas as he passed. “He is crying, or is about to be.”

“Now what has he done?” hissed Berensul furiously.

“Legolas never--”’

“I did not mean Legolas,” the crown prince said coldly, glaring in the direction of the throne room.

Legolas’s siblings gazed at each other silently, then Limloeth said softly, “I will go to him.”

“Lim, the king will not--”

“I did not mean the king,” before either of her brothers could protest, Limloeth walked in the direction Legolas had gone.

Limloeth had been astonished ninety years before when her reticent youngest brother had bested her in an archery competition, but since then she had come to terms with the fact that Legolas’s senses were superior even to her own. But hers were by no means lacking. She knew that Legolas heard her approach, and smiled wryly to herself as she in turn heard a frantic shuffling from his room. Receiving no answer to her knock, the princess walked in to find the curtains drawn, and Legolas lying upon his bed, facing away from her. “I know you are awake,” she said matter-of-factly.

There was silence, then a small, estranged voice whispered, “Leave me.”

Limloeth paused briefly, “No.”

“I wish to be alone.”

“Then you shall have to rise and put me out,” she taunted him lightly--as the practice of many years of sisterhood had taught her.

“Sister, I am not in the mood.”

With a sigh, Limloeth walked over and sat upon the side of the bed, putting her hand on her brother’s shoulder. She felt him shudder in response and leaning forward slightly, saw tears coursing down his face. “What has our ever-so-wise father done now?” she asked softly.

“I do not want to talk about it.”

“Then you should have locked your door,” she told him, brushing a light hand over his pale hair. After the death of Queen Minuial, Limloeth had made a conscious effort to fill the roll of her mother for her younger brothers. Like Berensul, she was protective of them. Especially Legolas. “You look so like her.”

She had not meant to say so aloud, but Legolas made a sound much like a sob. Limloeth stared at him, “What has our father said to you, Legolas?”

He gave in. Dashing tears from his eyes, Legolas sat up and faced her. “He did not believe I was ready to travel with the war parties, and when I disagreed…he reminded me…” He looked away, unable to continue.

*Curse him! That was needlessly cruel!* Limloeth thought with a surge of rare anger. Forcing herself not to speak so aloud--Legolas disliked hearing ill words about their father--she said mildly, “He should not have done such a thing, my brother. Traveling with the warriors is your right and duty now that you are of age. None can call you reckless.”

“No, he is right. Neither my mother, nor my brother and sisters were reckless, yet they perished. I have many centuries ahead of me to travel about Middle Earth; I should first know my own realm. There will be plenty of time for war parties,” with a defeated sigh, Legolas rose and opened the windows again, not facing his sister.

*Had Berensul been here, he would have charged into the throne room by now,* Limloeth thought ruefully. Though she was less hotheaded than her elder brother, she was no less incensed and frustrated by Thranduil’s treatment of Legolas. *Somehow we must find a way to persuade Father to cease holding Legolas back. This cannot go on forever. Father must let him go.*

Or perhaps the persuasion could be accomplished from the other end. “Father was very much grieved by the loss of our mother, and Tavron, Lalaith, and Meren’s deaths. As were Berensul, Belhador, and I. But I think perhaps he is letting his own fear get the better of him, Legolas.”

Legolas turned and stared at her, clearly astonished that anyone would accuse their father of fearing anything. Limloeth sighed inwardly, *Oh, my brother, how naïve you are, though I blame him rather than you. One day you shall discover his failings, and they shall devastate you. In his desperation to protect you, our father has ensured that the discovery of life’s cruel realities will be still harder for you to bear.*

Aloud, the princess spoke more gently. “Legolas, you must imagine how shattering the death of one’s children and wife must be to any father. Fear of losing one’s family is a reality to any parent, and after losing three--the thought of anything happening to the rest of us is a terror to our father. He wishes to protect you, but you must assert yourself.”

Legolas, she was dismayed to realize, had recovered himself, but was now fully in agreement with Thranduil. “I shall assert myself, Sister. It is just that I think Father’s advice is wise. I shall take on more hazardous duties when the time is right. There is no need for me to hurry.”

*Perhaps I should attempt a little bullying of my own.* Limloeth folded her arms and drew herself up--while Legolas was tall, she was nearly his height. “Perhaps you see no need for yourself, Brother, but for Mirkwood there is a very real need. Have you not heard the rumors of the evil forces rising right here within our borders? Threatening all the elven realms, and men, and all the free peoples of Middle Earth? Whatever our father has tried to convince you of, your prowess with the bow is unequaled, and you are highly-skilled with all other forms of combat. You have spent your life preparing to defend our people, and for every second that you hold back, the shadow grows darker. Mirkwood needs you, Legolas, and your bow, in the places where they are worth most. And those places are not training fields!”

***

“And he did not listen to you?” Prince Belhador was asking his elder sister as Gandalf passed the flet where they had gone to talk.

The Maia had not intended to eavesdrop, or join the conversation, but the outrage in the normally-serene Limloeth’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “I do not think he grasped a word of what I was saying, so convinced was he of our father’s rightness! It will never end, Belhador, the king has complete control of him! And if there is an end, it shall be very bad.”

Gandalf’s eminence among the elves allowed him to take liberties that would never have been dared by one who was neither royal, nor an elf, nor included in the conversation. “My lady?”

Belhador and Limloeth glanced down at him, startled, then chagrinned that they had not heard him come. “Mithrandir,” she said, but rather than embarrassment or anger at his intrusion, Gandalf heard a note of plea in her voice.

He took that as permission to come up. “Forgive my interference, Princess. But I fear I could not help but overhear what you said just now.”

With a sigh, the elf princess replied, “I should have taken care to prevent any from hearing me. But now it is done, and I confess I would be glad of your counsel.”

“What troubles you so, my lady?” Gandalf asked gently.

It was Belhador who answered, “I think, Mithrandir, you know more than your dissembling would suggests. I know my brother Berensul has spoken with you about our youngest brother’s…situation.”

Gandalf nodded. There were few secrets between elf siblings, royals or otherwise. “I understand that Legolas has been rather…insulated…from the troubles of the world, and of his family, it would appear. Has some new problem arisen?”

Limloeth was highly agitated, wringing her hands. “My friend, you are aware that Legolas’s coming of age entitles him to take up the full responsibilities as a warrior. It is his right to begin joining the war parties--and at such times as these, it is his duty to his realm.” With a helpless expression, she told him, “My father has prevented Legolas from doing so, instead confining him to the training of other novices when he can teach them none of the lessons that he himself learned from warriors seasoned in battle. He has not forbidden Legolas directly, but as good as, for all the pressure he has exerted.”

Gandalf listened gravely. He had feared just such a development. “And Legolas yielded?”

Belhador spoke in a low, grim voice, “Legolas has NEVER challenged the king, Mithrandir. Never. Alas, though our father is overbearing in other ways, he has retained his subtlety where my brother is concerned. He usually needs little effort to convince Legolas of his wisdom. Indeed, the fact that he resorted to such browbeating suggests that Legolas protested far more than he normally does.”

“Browbeating?” Gandalf raised his eyebrows.

Belhador and Limloeth exchanged an uncomfortable glance, before Limloeth admitted, “I happened upon my brother just after he spoke to the king this afternoon. He was very upset. But,” her irritation returned, “he was also completely under our father’s sway in the matter. I could not dissuade him. His skills shall be wasted here!” She turned away sharply, her normally soft brown eyes snapping with anger.

“What would you have me do, Lady?” Gandalf laid a light hand upon the distressed elf’s shoulder.

Limloeth turned back to him, the appeal once again visible in her eyes. “Perhaps you might speak to him, elf-friend. I do not doubt Langcyll has tried to persuade him to use his skills where they are worth most, to set aside his tentativeness. I suspect it was this that drove him to petition our father today. And he values your advice as well, I am certain of it. With you also speaking in favor of it, perhaps he will reconsider his plans. If he cannot be prevailed upon, I fear the results could be injurious to all--Legolas more than any.”

Gandalf had not expected to be quite so directly involved, but it was difficult to refuse the direct request from an elf--and all but impossible to refuse so fair a lady with such desperation in her fair voice. “I will do what I can.”

***

Though Gandalf prided himself in his ability to persuade even the elves to act upon his advice, even he had not counted upon the power of King Thranduil’s sway over his youngest son. Gandalf met young Legolas as he was returning from training exercises with a group of novices. The young warrior looked rather bored. *This task will be less difficult if he is already chafing at this routine.*

“Good morning, my lord,” he said cheerfully.

Legolas smiled politely, “Good day, Mithrandir.”

“The training of your charges goes well, I hope.”

“They are not my charges,” Legolas answered quickly, then looked as though he had not intended to say so aloud.

It provided Gandalf with an opening. “The training is a temporary arrangement, then? I had hoped it was.” Seeing Legolas’s startled expression, he pressed, “For I had thought your skills would be more valuable to Mirkwood if you were aiding in its defense from the shadow of Mordor and its evil creatures.”

Legolas shook his head quickly, “I do not consider myself ready for such responsibilities just yet. My f--I have decided I shall remain within the borders of Mirkwood and aid in its defense by training its defenders. For they shall be needed as well.”

“But surely it would be wise to learn to exercise your skills in action before attempting to teach them to others,” Gandalf said. “Will you not regret being the only one left behind when the next war parties depart in a few weeks?”

“I shall miss my companions, yes,” Legolas replied, looking quite uncomfortable. “But what I want and what is wise are not always the same thing.”

“Indeed? What do you want, then, my lord?” Gandalf asked, feigning puzzlement.

Legolas looked away. “There is no need to concern yourself, Mithrandir. I am doing what I consider to be prudent, and I believe it to be for the best. All is well with me.”

Gandalf protested, “But surely you have the right to consider your own desires as well as the advice of…others. Your elders are not infallible, young prince. Not even myself.” He chuckled and saw that Legolas had to force a smile. Returning to seriousness, he went on, “You have shown yourself to be a very sensible elf, Legolas, and a promising warrior for all your youth. Perhaps you should give a little more weight to what you want now that you are of age. It is your right.”

Legolas did not meet his eyes, but said simply, “Just because I have come of age does not mean that I am entitled to have my own way in everything. It is sensible of me to see that, Mithrandir. What I want is unimportant.” With that, he nodded to the Maia and walked swiftly away.

Gandalf looked grimly after him. *What he wants is unimportant…convinced him of that quite thoroughly, haven’t you, Thranduil? And it seems your son inherited your stubbornness. Already this confinement begins to stifle him. I only hope one of you comes to your senses before it is too late.*

***

Nearly a month later, Legolas still insisted that both he and Mirkwood were better served by him assisting in the training of the novices, to the intense frustration of all save his father. This morning found Candrochon, Tathar, and Merilin among the other young warriors in the training rooms preparing for the day’s exercises when Legolas joined them.

“Good morning, my lord,” came the chorused, half-teasing greeting from the group.

Legolas responded with a half-smile, half-glare to the general assembly, and pulled on his cote. The other elves looked at each other, then Merilin said casually, “The call for the next war parties is at dawn tomorrow morning. I assume we shall all be present?” There was no mistaking the plea in her voice.

Seeing the aggravation growing in Legolas’s eyes, Tathar said quickly, “Of course, we shall. Every party, for novices, hunts, and long expeditions shall be organized on the morrow. It is expected that all the warriors shall be present.” *Legolas owes me one,* he thought wearily. Unlike the others, Tathar did not believe anything would be accomplished by nagging at his best friend to change his mind. Passive resistance was the only kind of resistance Legolas practiced--consequently he had perfected the art of stubbornness. Pressuring him would be pointless.

Unfortunately, even Merilin and Candrochon did not seem to grasp this. Nor did the other young warriors. Almost all at once, a torrent of words erupted from the elves, pleading with Legolas to reconsider.

“Legolas, this is madness!” “You are the finest warrior of us all, your skills are needed!” “Langcyll truly believes you belong in the war parties, my lord, why do you refuse even him?” “Whoever put you up to such stalling clearly knows nothing of you or your skills!” “You will rue the day you remained behind!” “We are taught that we travel as well as train together--”

The entire company was stunned into silence when Legolas threw up his hands in a VERY uncharacteristic display of anger. “MUST I have this conversation with every single one of you? You know my reasons, for if you’ve not heard them from me, you’ve had them from one of your friends when I am not about. I tire of repeating myself and hearing the same protests daily. Enough. The decision is made. At least accept it with some respect.”

The other warriors were shocked, and many looked hurt. Legolas had turned away from them again. But as he went towards the door, Merilin said in a low, curt voice, “Yes…my lord.” Legolas faltered at the doorway, but stiffened his shoulders and went on.

Tathar sighed, looking bleakly at his and Legolas’s friends. The situation seemed utterly hopeless.

***

The day’s exercises were nearly complete when a messenger rode to the training fields bearing the flag of the king. Langcyll called a halt to the practicing and accepted the scroll bearing the king’s seal. The warriors, novices, and masters had gathered into a loose assembly to hear if the message concerned them. When Langcyll read the words, it was all he could do not to wince. This was the message he most dreaded imparting to his warriors.

So with his usual bland expression, but a terrible knot in his insides, he turned to the group and motioned them forward. “A message has arrived from Imladris, bringing bad tidings.”

He forced himself not to see the way the elves tensed. The seasoned warriors immediately closed their eyes, having heard such news before and far too many times. The novices and younger warriors looked puzzled, hoping the report would not be too grievous. He took a deep breath, “A war party from Imladris was attacked near the Bruinen ford four days ago.” Again, he fought to ignore the intakes of breath. “Four warriors of Imladris were slain. Daron, son of Laegnan, Narwain, son of Lalorn, Glamren, daughter of Falas, and…Gaerongil, son of Feredir.”

With a strangled gasp, Merilin clapped her hands over her mouth, staggered by shock and grief. Sounds of weeping soon filled the clearing and surrounding trees as the warriors of Mirkwood mourned the loss of their comrades-in-arms. The delegates to the Gathering Trial took the news of Gaerongil’s death worst of all, as Langcyll had known they would. Tathar sat on the soft grass, tears streaming shamelessly down his face, with his arm around Candrochon, who all but prostrate with sobs. Legolas held Merilin, her face buried in his shoulder as she wept. The prince himself did not cry--he did not yet appear to have moved past the shock. There was no color in his face, his eyes were focused upon nothing, and he trembled violently.

The news of an elf warrior’s death was always greeted by terrible grief from warriors of all the realms, for they were all comrades as well as kindred. Narwain had been captain of a war party with which Langcyll had once traveled for more than thirty years. Though his outward response might be controlled, the archer captain’s grief was no less. Yet in his eyes, the greatest tragedies were always the deaths of the young elves. It was true that many elves died young, for in the ranks of warriors, a youthful misstep could be fatal. But to Langcyll, the tragedy was seeing the grief on the faces of their equally-young friends when they first faced that wrenching emotion of loss.

Langcyll went to join the former Trial delegates of Mirkwood, to offer words he knew would bring little comfort. “Why?” cried Merilin as he placed his hand on her shoulder. She pulled away from Legolas to face Langcyll, and Legolas sat limply against a tree, still numb. “How could such a thing happen to Gaerongil and the others so close to Rivendell?!”

“It is a hard lesson to learn, my young warrioress, but it is true. There is no place in Middle Earth, nor anywhere else that is entirely free of danger. All that can be done is to protect yourself and your companions as best you can, without forgetting there are more important considerations than your own well-being. As close to the ford as they were, there were other elves about. The orc marauders might have taken many innocent lives had the Rivendell party not engaged them when they did, in spite of the fact that they were left with their backs to the river.”

Langcyll reached out and squeezed the shoulder of each of the four in turn. “They fought bravely and slew all the orc raiders before they could harm any others. Your friend Gaerongil died very young, but he shall never be forgotten by those he defended. It is the way of warriors, as each of you knew full well when you chose to become one.”

***

In spite of the fact that the morning’s exercises had not been strenuous and had been cut short, Legolas felt an incredible leadenness in his limbs. After being dismissed by Langcyll, all the warriors had departed in different directions, each one alone, to face his or her individual grief.

He had hoped to reach his chambers--and lock the door this time--without encountering anyone, but no sooner had he entered the palace than one of the stewards called, “The king wishes to see you upon your return, my lord.”

Legolas was tired in body and heart, and the effort of holding back the tears was becoming very great. Not bothering to contain a heavy sigh, he nodded and turned towards the throne room. When the elf herald announced him, Legolas entered, and King Thranduil immediately rose, motioning for the attendants to leave them. When the doors closed, Thranduil looked Legolas over. There was genuine concern and sorrow in the king’s eyes, but the intensity of Legolas’s own emotions was so great that he felt no desire to share them.

“Imladris lost four very fine warriors,” Thranduil said quietly, coming to stand close to Legolas. “Young Gaerongil one of their finest. I am so very sorry, my son.”

The part of Legolas which always thought objectively could not fathom why he did not welcome his father’s attentions as he usually did, or why he felt almost resentful of Thranduil’s words of sympathy. “I wish I could ease this pain for you,” the king was saying. “I do understand how deeply you are grieving.”

*I sincerely doubt that, Father! Spare me your pity!* the bitter thoughts would not be repressed. Nor would his tears for much longer. He wished he could escape, but Thranduil was not done.

“What befell Gaerongil was exactly what I had feared for you, my son, and I hope you see now why I spoke against your taking on dangerous duties immediately after your coming of age. If Gaerongil had not been so eager to race across Middle Earth, perhaps--”

Legolas burst out, “Could you not be troubled to read the message, Father?! Gaerongil and his party were within ten miles of Rivendell when they engaged the orcs! There were other elves in danger and they were left with no choice but to challenge them when and where they did. Do not call him foolish!”

The king had stepped back in complete shock. Legolas had never interrupted his father in his life. “Legolas! How--how dare--”

His son said fiercely, “My friend is dead, Father, I am in not in the mood to be lectured. And if I were, I should go to Langcyll. He at least would say something of substance.” The words were shocking Legolas even as he spoke them, but he could not stop, so great was his grief and anger. “I will not have you call Gaerongil rash or foolish. If he could be slain right before the ford of the Bruinen, then I could just as easily be slain five feet outside the palace walls. I cannot believe it is foolishness that is always to blame for one’s death. And at the moment, I care not what the reasons were for his death.” His voice was cracking ominously, and he knew he must get out of there at once. “You can do nothing and say nothing to ease my pain, Father. At least do me the courtesy of leaving me in peace.”

Legolas turned on his heel and stalked toward the door, tears all but blinding him. Thranduil had been nearly as stunned as he by the outburst. As he shoved open the door, from behind him, he heard his father call, “Legolas?” but it seemed more tentative than a command. Legolas ignored it.

*For once I have got the better of him,* Legolas thought bitterly. Ignoring all he passed, he fled to his chambers, bolted the door and the windows, then flung himself upon his bed and wept desperately into his pillow until he had no strength left.

***

King Thranduil did not follow Legolas from the throne room, so shocked was he by his normally mild son’s explosion. He did not know how long he had been standing in the center of the room when the herald timidly peered in. “My lord, are you receiving visitors?”

“Who is it?” Thranduil asked absently.

“The Crown Princess Eirien, my lord.”

Shaking the fog from his brain, Thranduil nodded, “Let her come in.” A moment later, the Princess Eirien, wife of the king’s eldest son, Berensul, entered the throne room. Eirien, beautiful in her pale, off-white gown, her golden-brown hair long and flowing, bowed to the king with a mildness that did not fool him for a second. Gentle and soft-spoken as Eirien was, Thranduil knew his eldest son had chosen a wife with strength and will to match his. “Pray, sit down, my child,” he said calmly and indicated the handsomely carved chair nearest his throne. Eirien walked over and sat, facing him placidly. “What can I do for you?”

“My lord, a party departs for Rivendell next week to study the healing arts with Lord Elrond. I beg leave to accompany them,” Eirien said with a calm face.

Eirien had long been traveled about Middle Earth learning the healing arts, and knew that she did not need Thranduil’s formal permission any more than she needed Berensul’s. The king knew traveling rights had been the last thing on Eirien’s mind when she came to see him. “Of course, Eirien. Will my son Berensul be accompanying you?”

“He is not yet certain, my lord. Business here in Mirkwood may require his attention, but I do not expect to be gone more than two months.”

“Even for such a short stay, my son would regret the separation,” Thranduil replied.

There was a definite hardness in Eirien’s large, blue-gray eyes. “And you, my lord? Will you regret the separation?”

Thranduil allowed a note of sternness to enter his voice, “Of course, my lady. Was there anything else?”

The crown princess looked away from him for a moment, then remarked softly, “Legolas passed me in the hall a few moments ago. The death of his friend Gaerongil seems to have grieved him deeply.”

*And you along with every other elf in the palace doubtlessly heard him shouting,* Thranduil thought ruefully. Considering how utterly unlike Legolas that had been, it would not be surprising if all palace activity had come to a screeching halt. “I fear he was, my lady. Gaerongil is the first warrior of his generation to perish. Such tragedies cannot be avoided in times like these, but all the elven realms are grieving today.”

Eirien nodded sadly, then got to the point the king knew she was heading towards. “Gaerongil was neither foolish, nor reckless, my lord. And nor is Legolas. He is a most cautious and sensible elf far beyond his years.”

“Indeed, my lady, do you think so?” Thranduil asked formally.

“I do, my lord. He will not be fully of age for nearly four more decades. Until now, he has lived a sheltered life, where even the dangers of the greenwood are carefully controlled in his presence. He has never shed the blood of any living thing, even an orc or a spider, and he has never fought a battle where his life was the only stake.” Looking away from Thranduil as though she were simply making small talk, Eirien remarked delicately, “But he cannot be expected to live under such restrictions forever.”

“I have never denied Legolas permission to travel, my lady.”

“No?”

Eirien’s knowing eyes pierced Thranduil, and in her gaze he saw himself. *Perhaps I have been holding him back. He is young yet, but…he is a fine and skilled warrior. And Langcyll is right; such skills are needed by all elves right now. Perhaps Gaerongil’s death will demonstrate the need for caution far better than anything I might say. *

Aloud, Thranduil said, “Eirien, I do not…doubt Legolas’s skill or his courage. But you yourself have seen his inexperience. I am…concerned that he will be overwhelmed by the dangers and horrors of life in the war parties during these times. These will be his most perilous years, and I do not wish him to take on tasks beyond his abilities.”

Her eyes troubled, Eirien faced him directly again, “Forgive me. I think perhaps you are wrong.”

She hesitated. One did not contradict the king of Mirkwood lightly, but Thranduil merely raised his eyebrows, so she went on, “Legolas does not fear the unknown, it is true. And once he faces living foes, he shall know fear and doubt. But that is a journey all elves must travel, and to attempt to shelter him from the realities of fear and death will be pointless. I believe Legolas will do what is sensible to protect himself, and when he does discover fear, he will overcome it. As you did, my lord, and your elder sons and daughters.” Gazing at him sadly, she said, “Legolas cannot make up for the lives of his brother and sisters by simply being protected, my lord. He must be allowed to protect himself, and his people. I think perhaps he will do better than you think.”

*Berensul always admires perceptiveness. I can see why he married you, dear girl. Of all of them, you have seen through me. Perhaps in my grief for my own loss, I have tried to hard to protect him and not allowed him to determine his own destiny. Perhaps it is time to let him go. Loathe though I am to part with him.* The thought throbbed in Thranduil’s heart, then he remembered Eirien was still there. He said nothing, merely smiled at her.  
With an answering smile, she rose. “Good night, my lord.”

Thranduil rose and bowed deeply to her, “Good night, my daughter.” Eirien bowed in response and departed.

Thranduil summoned an attendant. His first thought was to send for Legolas, then he decided against it. *I should allow him this night to himself, to grieve alone. I was wrong to attempt to force him to share his grief with anyone so soon. It is too late for him to join these war parties, but I will give my permission tomorrow for him to depart with the ones that follow next month. He will be glad of the news, and still take the time to prepare himself.*

To the attendant, he ordered, “I wish to see Prince Legolas after the warrior exercises tomorrow afternoon. Send for him when he returns from training the novices.” Sleep and tomorrow’s exercises would give Legolas time to recover himself. Then Thranduil would talk with him…and ask his forgiveness.

***

Elves require little sleep in the fashion that men know, but even elven rest eluded Legolas that night. Past midnight, he gave up and left his chambers, counting on the late hour to keep all abed but the palace guards. He wandered aimlessly through the dimly-lit palace corridors, his mind too troubled for sleep. He thought of the Trial, of Langcyll’s praises, of Mithrandir’s advice, of his friends and their plans for today, of his siblings and their own comings of age, and of his father’s words against all of the former. Throughout these thoughts, he tried unsuccessfully to keep his mind from Gaerongil.

*What cruel fate would allow him to die when he’d barely had the chance to know life?* Legolas thought, feeling a surge of bitter anger towards the world. He sighed to himself. *I should not have vented my anger to my father so yesterday. He was only speaking as he always does; it is only that I was more upset than I have ever been.*

“Trouble sleeping, my lord?”

Legolas actually yelped and jumped backwards. It was Mithrandir. He steadied himself, “Forgive me, Mithrandir, you startled me.”

The wizard smiled, and Legolas felt a flash of irritation at the sympathy he saw in the Maia’s eyes. “May I offer my condolences, my lord, for the loss of your friend, and the other warriors of Imladris.”

Legolas told himself firmly, *I shall NOT lose my temper again. He is only saying what he can.* Aloud, he replied, “My thanks, elf-friend. All the…warriors of Mirkwood are deeply grieved by the news.”

Mithrandir nodded, and to Legolas’s intense relief, did not continue discussion of the painful subject. But the one he chose instead was not much of an improvement, “I understand the warriors of Mirkwood convene at dawn to form new parties.”

“Yes.” Legolas hoped the short answer would close the matter.

The Maia said calmly, “You still intend using your skills as a trainer then, my lord?”

Legolas could not answer. The thought of remaining here in Mirkwood, leading first-century novices on exercise romps in the trees outside the palace was enough to nauseate him, yet…he would be practically defying his father to join one of the war parties. Seeing Mithrandir’s all-too-knowing expression, he admitted, “I do not know. I have had…second thoughts.”

Mithrandir smiled, “I suspect you know the opinions of half the elves in Mirkwood on the subject of where your skills would be put to the best use, young prince. And you also know mine, so I will not burden you with a repetition of them. The decision now belongs to you. Choose well.” With that, the Maia bowed to him. “In any case, my lord, I depart tonight for the Shire. It is possible I will not see you before then, so I take my leave now.”

Legolas impulsively reached out and gripped the wizard’s hand, “You have been a wise advisor to us as always, Mithrandir. I hope we shall meet again.”

“As do I, young Prince Legolas. Farewell,” Mithrandir turned and went back the way he had come.

When he returned to his chambers, Legolas found that his mind was clear. As was his resolve. It was also time to meet the other warriors. He dressed and went to the training fields. Along the way, he met many other warriors preparing to depart, including his sister Limloeth. She said nothing about Gaerongil, merely squeezed his hand and dropped it. He smiled gratefully.

They joined a large assembly of elf warriors in the meadow just beyond the fortress. Langcyll oversaw the organization of the warriors. “In spite of our grief for the deaths of our kindred, we must not relax our vigilance. Orc activity along the western border has increased dramatically. Their bands have even been sighted at the edges of Lórien. They must be driven south again. We wish to send several parties on long expeditions along the Anduin to scour the land clean of the orc pestilence. Lórien and Imladris also prepare their parties of warriors. We shall increase our hunts and patrols within our borders as well, to drive the evil creatures of Mordor from whence they came. When our forces meet the other realms, we shall drive south as one and wipe out as many as we can. The service of all of our warriors is needed. More missions will be called over the next two days.”

With that, the warriors organized themselves according to their rank and skill. Legolas caught the eyes of Candrochon, Tathar, and Merilin, and all worries for the moment were forgotten in his joy at taking his place among the fully-trained warriors of Mirkwood. To their left were the most advanced novices, and at the far left were those young elves just beginning their training at arms. Only the captains and novice masters stood at Legolas’s right, and he felt immensely proud.

One by one, Langcyll began declaring the various expeditions and asking for volunteers. There was no shortage of elves to carry out the missions. The first were the smallest and simplest--patrols in the central parts of Mirkwood to drive the orcs and spiders forth towards the outskirts. These tasks were taken up by the trainees and young novices under the guidance of a few masters. As Langcyll’s recruitment went on, the missions went further from the safest parts of the green wood, and grew in danger. But Legolas did not yet step forward to volunteer, though he noticed Langcyll and several of the captains glancing at him more and more frequently. Limloeth in particular stared at him, and when he did not volunteer for the last novice mission, a murmur rippled through the warriors. Limloeth shot him an unabashed grin. His mind was made up.

Merilin joined a five month long expedition to follow the Anduin north almost to its source. Candrochon also joined a northern party that would scour the Lonely Mountain. Legolas knew the last remaining missions would be the ones taking him furthest and longest from Mirkwood--which was the reason for his delay. Eregdos, one of the other captains, shot him a genuinely anxious glance as he finally understood the young prince’s intentions. It was true that all the warriors had hoped Legolas would join one of the war parties, but they had not anticipated this.

“The last of today’s missions will take many months, perhaps years,” Langcyll announced with a worried glance at Legolas. “We will require fifteen warriors to travel north to Withered Heath and follow the Grey Mountains west to Langwell. They will then turn south and travel through the Misty Mountains to engage the enemy in their hiding places. They shall meet a force from Rivendell of similar size, and drive south all the way to Moria. There they shall meet the forces of Lórien, and push back east to cut off the enemy fleeing south. That is the mission,” he declared. “I shall lead it, and require fourteen fully-trained warriors.”

“I will join the party.” Later, the novices swore that the stern archery captain and novice master flinched when Prince Legolas, the champion archer of Mirkwood, was the first to step forward.

“My lord?” It was expected that the most skilled and seasoned warriors would make up this mission, and although Legolas was very skilled, he lacked battle experience. Yet the captain did not intend to question Legolas‘s readiness after spending so many weeks trying to convince him of it. When Legolas did not recant his offer, Langcyll slowly nodded.

Tathar was equally surprised at his reserved friend’s sudden about-face, but once it was done, he had no intention of letting Legolas make the trip without him. “I, too, shall join.”

Twelve other warriors soon stepped forward, and the party was complete. “We will depart in one hour time,” Langcyll told them, “from the North gate of the fortress.” In his heart, Langcyll hoped that one of Legolas’s friends or siblings might persuade him to join a less dangerous mission. Though he had no doubts about the prince’s skill or courage--or that of Tathar--this expedition would be dangerous. The only thing that grieved Langcyll more than informing his youngest warriors of the loss of their friends, was losing one of the young ones in his own ranks.

***

Langcyll would have been dismayed to discover that Legolas had no intention of giving his father or siblings the chance to dissuade him from this journey. *I love my home and my family,* he told himself as he swiftly packed his saddlebags, weapons, and travel gear. *But I cannot allow either to become my shackles. I see now what Limloeth was trying to tell me. I must be free of my father’s influence for some time until I learn to make my own way. I am a prince and a warrior of Mirkwood, and their champion archer. I must use the skills I’ve learned to protect my people.*

As he prepared to leave his tidied chamber to join the war party, his gaze fell upon the handsomely crafted silver circlet worn by the noble elves. Technically speaking, he should take it and wear it; it was an important symbol to the elves of Mirkwood that their princes rode with the warriors, but Legolas’s involvement with this mission was neither blessed nor even known to his father the king. *I fear they shall have to accept me as merely their equal. For myself, I will not regret the arrangement.*

It was a blessing that this day was a rest day for most elves, so that King Thranduil was most likely taking the opportunity to sleep later than usual. More than likely, Langcyll’s party would be well onto the trail by the time anyone missed Legolas. He sat at his desk for some time with a blank scroll in front of him, trying to think of a message to leave for his father, but no words would grow under his pen, and it was time to depart. With a final look around his rooms, the elf warrior departed.

He met Limloeth in the stables. His sister’s eyes were very full as she watched him packing Lanthir. Desperate to break the silence, he remarked, “You did not volunteer?”

Limloeth shook her head, “I am waiting. A mission leaves to form a joint party with Lórien tomorrow. I wish to see the Golden Wood again.”

“And Orthelian of Lórien?” Legolas asked slyly. (Orthelian was a renowned archer captain of Lórien who had been a friend of Limloeth’s for many years, and who Legolas suspected would soon become something more.)

Limloeth blushed, smiling. Then she abruptly stepped forward and flung her arms around her youngest brother. “I know I urged you to take this course. But I cannot deny my heart aches at this parting. How I shall miss you, little brother.”  
Despite the stinging of tears in his eyes, Legolas managed to laugh, “You have not called me that since my first coming of age.”

Limloeth pulled back and held him at arm’s length as though committing him to memory, “I suppose I have not. How you have grown. Let none declare you unready to face the world. How proud our mother would be to see you now.”

Looking down, Legolas murmured, “Limloeth, I shall be gone before the rest of our family have risen. Will you…will you tell them…”

His sister nodded, dashing tears from her own eyes, “I know what it is you wish to say, Legolas. Of course I shall tell them. I know Berensul and Belhador at least will be very proud.” Neither of them spoke again of the king.

Legolas could hear other warriors packing their horses and leading them to the North Gate. He embraced his sister tightly. Gaerongil’s death had burned the painful truth into both their minds of the possibility that they might never see each other again. “Farewell, my sister.”

“My heart goes with you, Legolas. But I know beyond any doubt that you shall fare well. And you shall be a great warrior and credit to all elves.” Limloeth squeezed his hands, “I do believe we shall meet again.” Gesturing to Lanthir to follow him, Legolas left his sister standing in the stables.

He met Tathar coming out of the fortress. “This is all your fault, you know. I was intending to join the mission to Fangorn tomorrow.”

Blandly, Legolas replied, “I did not stop you.”

“Of course, you did. I could scarcely let our archery champion and prince dart off on such a dangerous mission through the mountains without one of his comrades to watch his back,” Tathar retorted.

“We have thirteen other comrades, my friend,” Legolas pointed out, relieved that Tathar did not refer to him as “my lord.” The title made him think of his father. *He will be so angry…*

“But you and I were comrades in training,” the irrepressible Tathar answered smoothly. “We know each other’s skills and weaknesses well.”

“Seeing as how neither of us has ever been tested in battle, I should say we knew neither skill nor weakness,” Legolas said, then fell silent as they came out of the gates to where the horses were being organized.

Langcyll looked dismayed to see Legolas still among the company, but he could say nothing against it; it was the prince’s right now. *It is my right…*

Legolas was more amused than resentful to note that his and Tathar’s horses had been placed in the center of the formation, with other warriors flanking them on all sides. *Langcyll shall soon have to shed any thought of protecting me if he wishes to use the skills of the party efficiently.* Tathar, on the other hand, was quite disgusted.

There was little fanfare as the party of fifteen prepared to ride the gates of the fortress; scarcely any of Mirkwood’s people knew that their Prince Legolas, last child of King Thranduil and Queen Minuial, champion archer of the Elven Realms, was departing the world of training games and competitions to test his skills against living foes. The relatives of most of the warriors stood a discreet distance away, having made their personal farewells in private, like Legolas and Limloeth. Legolas glanced up absently and saw his sister watching him from an empty balcony. She raised a silent hand in a farewell salute.

At the front of the party, Langcyll mounted his horse, looked to make sure the group was ready to ride, and gave the signal to move out. The few elves present looked on as the party moved forward, out of the North Gate of King Thranduil’s fortress, and rode swiftly out of sight.

*****


	10. Of Places Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

*Denotes unspoken thought  
** Denotes flashbacks

 

***

They buried him beneath the apple tree.

 

***

It was all that Langcyll could do not to sob with despair himself at the sight of his warriors’ grief. *Curse the Valar! How could these foul beasts of Sauron have claimed one of the youngest of our number?! How vicious is fate!*

After the battle, Langcyll had returned from chasing down and shooting the last remaining orcs to find all the other warriors crowded around the apple tree, and the sound of their desperate weeping that could mean only one thing. Frantic with horror, the company’s captain had rushed through them, to find Legolas kneeling beside Tathar’s body, and Tuilinn clutching the base of the tree, sobbing helplessly, oblivious to the arrow in her side.

For several moments, Langcyll had been unable to move or think, so shocked and grieved was he. He had also forgotten to breathe, and it was only when his body forced him to take a gulp of air that he remembered who he was. And what he must do. He had set some of the warriors on watch, ordered others to care for the wounded, and they had done so, but still they wept. Langcyll himself had gone to Legolas.

The warrior captain of Mirkwood had known, even as he shook Legolas out of his stupor and then dragged him out of the distraught anguish that inevitably followed, that there was nothing he could do to ease this moment for the youngest of his warriors. *His best and oldest friend.* Langcyll cursed fate again. The young elf had learned of the reality of death among warriors when Gaerongil had been slain, but to lose one of his own companions, and his dearest friend, so soon--now, as then, Langcyll feared for Legolas. For an elf, physical wounds were not the only mortal blow.

The last of the earth had been placed back over the grave, and a stone bearing Tathar’s name (Gwilwileth and Glanaur had spent six hours carving it.) Tuilinn, trying valiantly but unsuccessfully to contain her sobs, had laid a branch of apple blossoms before the stone. The warriors had prayed and sung laments for the brave young warrior who had proven himself with such promise, and perished so early. But now the courage and merriment of his youth would live forever.

Legolas did not sing. Langcyll was not surprised; the friendship between the two had been so great that it would be a very long time before Legolas could sing, speak, or even think of it without being overcome by grief. As it was, Legolas stood completely motionless beside the tree where Tathar was buried. Throughout their funeral, he had looked nowhere except down. He did weep aloud like many of the others, but tears streamed continuously down his face. Since the previous night, between preparing for the funeral and watching for orcs, Langcyll had kept an eye on Legolas as often as he could, and from what he had seen and the others had said--in the past sixteen hours, Legolas had not stopped crying.

But now the burial was done, and the company had to press on. “Ready the horses,” Langcyll told his warriors quietly. “We must ride for Imladris.”

Wiping tears from their eyes and forcing their grief back down, the war party did as he had bidden. Not surprisingly, Legolas tarried beside Tathar’s grave, and Langcyll left him alone for a few moments. But when the horses were nearly ready, he turned back in time to see Legolas kneel and push something into the soft earth beneath the apple blossoms. Langcyll caught a glint of silver. With a deep, shuddering breath, the prince of Mirkwood rose, and seeing Langcyll watching him, came to join the others. Langcyll put a hand on the young elf’s arm as he passed, and Legolas looked at him. The prince’s dark grey eyes were so clouded by bewilderment and pain that it all but broke the captain’s heart. In a quiet voice, Legolas said, “He was nobler than I shall ever be.”

Langcyll watched him closely as Legolas finished packing Lanthir, then abruptly turned to Sadron. Tathar’s mount hung his head, knowing in the mysterious way of elven horses that his rider would never return. Stroking Sadron’s neck, Legolas slipped the lead from him. “Farewell, Faithful One. Return to us when you are ready, and roam free until then. See the world as he was not able to.” He let go, and Sadron galloped away down the mountainside.

“It is time, Legolas,” Langcyll said.

With an absent nod, Legolas mounted Lanthir and joined the company. None of the other warriors had noticed the missing crown of Mirkwood. Langcyll doubted he himself would have noticed, had he not seen what Legolas had done with it. But he had no intention of mentioning it now. Or ever. *By the sixth week of our journey, only Tathar still called him “my lord.” Even when we return to Mirkwood, though I may dare the king’s displeasure, I shall never address him so again. Only Tathar had that right.*

Riding to the front of the formation, Langcyll raised his hand and gave the order to move out. Thirty-six hours after riding into this sunlit glade that had brought them such joy on its discovery, the war party of Mirkwood rode forth from it, having found there only death and grief.

***

Legolas allowed Lanthir to follow the other horses and twisted around on his mount’s back, staring at the flowering apple tree, and the grave beneath it, until they were lost from view when the party rounded a bend. Turning forward again, he felt fresh new tears sliding down his face. Since the previous night, he did not think he had managed to stop weeping for more than five minutes at any given time.

*How could he leave me? Would that I had died myself rather than be forced to journey on without him! I cannot go on without him!* Outwardly, Legolas was expressionless other than the telltale tear streaks, but inside raged a frenzied tempest of grief, anger, hopelessness. Never in his existence, long to men but short by elven standards, had Legolas felt so utterly lost.

Langcyll had told him the night before, even as he clung hysterically to Tathar, that he still owed his allegiance to the company. “We must move on and reach Rivendell,” the captain had said as Legolas wept. “Then there will be time. Now, your companions need you. When we are safely in Imladris, you must give yourself time.”

*Time for what, without Tathar?* Legolas thought numbly. Somehow, that black night, he had risen and gone to help his wounded--but still living--comrades. Somehow, he had managed to carry on, for their sake, because he did not wish for them to lose hope. *For myself, if there is any hope, then I cannot see it.*

***

The party rode very hard on that last leg of the journey to Rivendell, and encountered wargs thrice and orcs six times during those three weeks. There were more wounds, but no deaths, and one might almost pity any orc that happened into the company’s path, so fiercely did they fight under the new banner of vengeance. During the first skirmish with a small party of orcs, nine days after the battle by the apple tree, Legolas fought the creatures of Mordor with a savagery that was frightening to watch, and killed seven of the ten himself. He might well have raced off looking for more had one of his comrades not seized him.

On the night following the ninth battle after Tathar of Mirkwood’s death, the war party of Langcyll were met by a patrol of elves scouting the lands of Imladris. They were escorted by the Imladris warriors back to Rivendell, and many of the company wept at the sight of its handsome dwellings. Two years was not a terribly long time by elven standards, but the last three weeks had seemed far too long to bear, with every second a stab of grief. Elves, being immortal, place a very great value upon all life, but like all races, the lives of the young of their own are the most precious, for they have not yet had the chance to see and explore the world. A death like Tathar’s was an unimaginable tragedy.

***

Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Lord Elrond of Imladris, happened to be on the outskirts of Imladris on the day that the war party of Langcyll arrived. From where they stood speaking to the sentries about some other matter altogether, Elladan glanced out down the road. “A party of horses comes,” he remarked, seeing no reason for alarm, as they came openly.

“One of our patrols?” Elrohir asked, and he and the sentry leaned out of the pavilion to look.

“Nay, it is too large. Perhaps a war party,” the sentry said. “There! The flag of Thranduil of Mirkwood. And many wood elves. It is the war party of Langcyll.”

“They are very late,” Elladan said grimly. “I fear they shall have much news for us, and most of it ill. Nor shall we have good tidings for them of the past two years.”

Elrohir did not speak. He was counting the riders. “They come with our patrol of six riders. Do you remember, how many were there to be in Langcyll’s company, brother?”

“Fifteen,” Elladan frowned. “How many warriors of Mirkwood do you see?”

With a terrible expression, Elrohir leaned back into the pavilion and turned to face his brother. “Only fourteen. And the faces of all are shadowed with sorrow. One of the warriors of Mirkwood is fallen.”

It was not a great surprise; one had to be prepared for large mountain parties to lose warriors. But the news was always grievous nonetheless. Tense in anticipation of the grief they would feel on hearing the name of the elf lost, the sons of Elrond rode to meet the party of Langcyll.

Langcyll rode up in front of the company, beside the lead patrolman of Imladris. “Welcome, Langcyll of Mirkwood,” Elladan said, forcing some semblance of cheer into his voice.

“Well met, Elladan of Imladris,” the warrior captain replied.

“I have sent my brother to inform our father Lord Elrond that you are come,” Elladan said, delaying the inevitable bad news. “I assume you shall wish to see him right away?”

“I fear I must, my lord,” Langcyll said sadly. “We bear ill news from the mountains. And we must also beg that a messenger be sent to bring sad tidings to Mirkwood.” Elladan held his breath, as Langcyll went on, “Three weeks ago, Tathar, son of Alagos, was slain in battle. His people must be told.”

Tathar…the name struck Elladan’s memory, and he wanted to weep. *Barely two years since the Great Gathering, and already two of the Trial delegates have perished. What cruel times we live in!* Aloud, he said quietly, “I am grieved indeed, my friend. Tathar was one of the champions of Mirkwood, was he not?”

Langcyll nodded. *And there is another of Faron’s friends, slain. Gaerongil’s death nearly destroyed him, and still he grieves. I dread his reaction to these ill tidings,* thought Elladan. He sent one of the patrol riders to bear the message back to Rivendell ahead of the party, so the house of Elrond and all Rivendell might be set into mourning as was proper for the death of any elven warrior. And Elladan himself rode at Langcyll’s side into Imladris.

***

Lord Elrond was deeply sorrowed when his son Elrohir arrived to tell him that the war party of Mirkwood had arrived, many months later than expected--and that one of its youngest warriors had been slain. The Lord of Imladris swiftly ordered that the news be sent at once to all Rivendell, and long before the party arrived, tears and grief upon many faces showed that all had heard of the disaster.

*It seems there is no good news to be had anywhere,* Elrond thought, wearily leaving the room where he had discovered Arwen weeping upon a couch. *The shadow over Mirkwood grows darker by the day, and Thranduil cannot be reasoned with on any subject anymore. Two warriors of this generation slain within two years of each other, and foul creatures plague every road and hill. Even the power of the elves seems helpless against this onslaught of darkness.*

Elrond waited by the window until he saw the flags of Mirkwood and Imladris rounding the last bend into Rivendell. Tapping gently on the doorway of the room he had just left, he said softly, “The party of Langcyll is arriving, Arwen. Your presence is needed.”

Raising her face from the cushion, Arwen nodded, drying her tears, and rose. Elrohir, his eyes also red, came to join them and took his younger sister’s arm. “Prince Legolas is among the company,” Elrohir told her softly.

Arwen nodded, blotting at her face with a handkerchief, “I recall having heard that he had joined the party. It did not surprise me; Legolas and Tathar were seldom far apar--” she was forced to cease and pressed the handkerchief to her face, closing her eyes. At last, she took a deep breath, regaining control. “How grieved he must be.” She sighed deeply again and straightened her shoulders, “So we must not burden him with our own sorrow as well. He bears enough.”

Elrohir and Arwen followed Lord Elrond out onto the steps of the house, to greet the riders as they dismounted. Langcyll came up beside Elladan. “Welcome, Langcyll of Mirkwood,” Elrond said. As he exchanged pleasantries with the group, his eyes were drawn unavoidably to the fair-haired prince in the midst of the warriors, and he felt a renewed sorrow. Legolas looked very pale, and his face was deeply shadowed with grief and exhaustion. The tragedy of Tathar’s death had taken a deep toll.

Returning his attention to the warrior captain, Elrond went on, “You have had a long and wearying journey. Your party shall rest here for some weeks, then our warriors of Imladris will join you for the drive south to Lórien. But first, we must all take the time to assuage our grief for the fallen Tathar of Mirkwood. Come,” he led the way back into the house. “Your chambers are being made ready.”

Later that afternoon, Elrond had the opportunity to speak to Langcyll alone. “How badly has your party been affected?”

The stoic archer always seemed in firm control, but Elrond could see past the stern exterior to the deep grief within. “Most of my warriors have faced the death of one of their own before. We have all lost friends.” Langcyll broke off and gazed out the window. “All, save Legolas. Gaerongil was a fellow archer and friend, but Tathar…” shaking his head, the captain turned to Elrond with a bleak expression. “I am worried. He has been listless for the past three weeks, unless we are battling orcs, in which case he turns into a possessed madman the minute he sees one of those foul beasts. He does not eat or sleep unless I order him to do so. Now here, I fear he shall neglect himself further where I cannot keep watch on him. Never have I lost one of my warriors to grief, and I do not wish Legolas to be the first.”

Elrond looked away from the other’s anxious face, troubled still more. Glorfindel had feared the same thing, rightly so, after Gaerongil’s death; Faron, too, had nearly perished from grief. “These are black times, my friend, that our youngest warriors should lose their dearest friends so early. But we in Imladris were able to pull Faron through his sorrow. We must do the same for Legolas. For now, give him some time to overcome his grief on his own. Then, if he does not improve, we shall endeavor to aid him.”

***

Two weeks later…

The object of Elrond and Langcyll’s concern stood alone on the balcony of his chamber, overlooking a waterfall. He no longer cried uncontrollably, but whenever he managed to escape the company of other elves, tears still fell just as easily and helplessly as they had the day Tathar had been buried.

The journey to Rivendell had been worse than Legolas had ever imagined, and the time since their arrival had shown no improvement. Every breath was an effort in itself, every moment of the ride, he imagined he could hear Sadron galloping just beside him, and see Tathar’s dark head in the corner of his eye. Every night, he lay down beneath his blankets and wept silently, unable to sleep for the lack of the one who had spread his own blankets next to Legolas for the past two years, and trained by his side for centuries before. There no longer remained even the tiniest detail of life that held any joy for Legolas.

Two weeks had passed since the company’s arrival in Rivendell, and Legolas only showed himself when his presence was ordered by Langcyll. But the archer captain of Mirkwood had much to deal with now that they had arrived in Mirkwood, and Legolas knew Langcyll could not spend his time watching over an overwrought warrior. For which Legolas was very thankful, otherwise Langcyll would surely hound him endlessly. So Legolas was able to hide himself from the others, unable to face his own feelings, let alone them. He had little interest in sleep, and still less in food. He remained inside most of the time, but this afternoon, he had walked out onto the balcony to escape the laughter of some elven children passing the chamber, but now his gaze was drawn across the river to a large apple tree, its branches laden with tiny new fruit. Legolas retreated and drew the curtains, so painful was the sight.

A knock upon the door made him jump. It was Elrohir and Elladan, bearing a bottle of wine. “Well, Legolas, two years have told on you. We have not yet had the chance to talk. Shall we now?”

Unable to think of an excuse, Legolas nodded, and let them in, reopening the curtains. Very little moved him to words these days. He supposed he must learn how to speak again sooner or later. The trio sat upon the chairs of the balcony and Legolas accepted a goblet from Elrohir, avoiding their faces. Sipping the wine gave him the excuse not to speak. “Much has happened since we last met,” Elladan remarked quietly.

Legolas found that his voice failed him on the first try, but he managed to respond at last, “Yes, it has.” Not the wittiest thing he had ever said, but he cared not.

“Our warriors too encountered the creatures of Mordor in far greater numbers than anticipated. They have infested all the mountains, and the southern regions of Mirkwood, we are told.” Elrohir paused, apparently expecting a response, but Legolas simply nodded. The older elf said slowly, “We are very sorry for the death of Tathar, Legolas. I know the wound is fresh yet, but it must be said.”

Legolas looked frantically away, unwilling to share such thoughts with anyone. He could not even bare to think of it himself, and blood began roaring in his ears. “Forgive me,” he said weakly. “I cannot…” His throat closed, cutting off his voice again.

Hastily, Elladan reached past Elrohir and took Legolas’s glass and refilled it, handing it back to him. Legolas took a rather large gulp and after a moment, he could hear the waterfall again. With an effort, he was able to look back at them. Elrohir mercifully did not pursue the subject, “Ah…Arwen is only just returned from Lórien. Fortunately, the beasts of Mordor have yet to penetrate Lady Galadriel’s land.”

The weight of many sleepless days and nights was beginning to grow greater upon Legolas, and he found it difficult to concentrate. He answered wearily, “I am glad of that.”

“After all,” Elladan added, “we cannot believe that the shadow of Sauron has overpowered the strength of the elves while Lothlórien remains free of it. Our Lady’s power still holds sway, so we need not despair.”

Legolas’s head felt heavy, and the drowsiness was really becoming too much. A soft blackness was creeping onto the edges of his vision. Faintly, he replied, “I suppose…it must be true. As long as the Golden Wood still lives free…we must not…abandon hope…” The dark cloud rose up and wrapped itself around him, and he knew nothing more.

***

Legolas was not the only elf with mischievous elder siblings. Arwen happened to be in the hall when she saw her brothers coming from the direction of the chamber where the prince was staying. Both hesitated upon seeing her, and she paused herself. Staring at them, Arwen said, “I fear for all concerned when I see the two of you looking so pleased with yourselves. What are you up to?”

The twins exchanged a glance, not smiling, but it was still enough for Arwen to place her hands upon her hips and glare at them. “Where is Legolas?” she asked, noting the room they had just come from.

With the faintest of smiles, Elladan replied innocently, “He is asleep.”

Seeing the nearly empty bottle of wine in Elrohir’s hand, Arwen took two outraged steps forward and hissed, “You did NOT get him drunk!”

With a wounded expression, Elrohir said softly, “Sister, have you no faith in our subtlety? Langcyll told Father that Legolas has scarcely slept or eaten since…” he cocked his head slightly, then pushed ruthlessly past the painful subject. “His heart will not be well if his body is not,” he went on, speaking quickly. “Father thought it would be…for the best if Legolas did not weary himself further.” From his pocket, he displayed a small handful of dried herb that crumbled easily in his fingers.

“Olgalas,” Arwen said. Then she folded her arms and asked skeptically, “Father told you to drug the prince of Mirkwood?”

The twins exchanged glances again, and this time, they smiled. With a shrug, Elladan said, “Perhaps not in so many words.”

With a disgusted shake of her head, Arwen walked past them. Passing Legolas’s room, she opened his door a crack and peered in to see that he was indeed sound asleep in his bed, so deeply that his eyes were nearly closed. She shut the door and continued on her way, thinking perhaps a pinch of olgalas in his wine was an easier way to get Legolas to rest. Though, she assured herself, she would never encourage her brothers by saying such a thing.

***

The following morning, Legolas could not recall the remainder of his conversation with Elladan and Elrohir--nor could he recall having gone to bed--but he was too distracted to care. Still, having slept so deeply, he felt more alert than he had in the past few weeks, and for the first time, hunger was making itself hard for him to ignore.

Shortly after he rose, he heard a knock upon his door. It was Elunen. “Legolas, we are to join the warriors of Imladris to discuss the journey, and our encounters with the orcs.”

Legolas nodded. He followed Elunen to the porch where Lord Elrond was holding council with the other warriors of Mirkwood and Imladris. There he met the rest of his company--it had been the first time in two years that he had gone more than an hour or two without seeing them--and many warriors of Imladris, most of whom Legolas knew, at least by reputation. But one drew his attention immediately, for they both entered the porch where the council was to be held at the same time, from opposite sides.

It was Faron, the champion archer of Imladris, who had placed third in the Great Gathering Trial. When they first came upon each other, their initial reaction was pleasure, and they hurried forward to meet. Then, Legolas absently glanced about for the other warrior who had always appeared at Faron’s side: Gaerongil. And then he remembered. At the same time, he caught Faron glancing about, seeking the friend he was used to seeing beside Legolas. When their gazes met again, both knew that their worlds had changed forever.

But the Council was to convene, and there was no time for grief now. Legolas and Faron settled for gripping each other’s arms tightly in their mutual loss, and they went to sit with their comrades.

“Within a week of departing Mirkwood, we encountered a party of orcs,” Langcyll told the Council. “Not moving towards Mirkwood but rather coming from it.” A murmur went through the Imladris side of the Council at this news, and Langcyll went on, “I believed then that our patrols and hunts within Mirkwood would be successful, and that we might purge our lands of their filth entirely. But none had anticipated how strong a foothold the foul creatures of Mordor had gained in the mountains. Not since the Second Age have I encountered so many in such a short span of time.”

The warriors of Imladris had only more of the same to report. And none, not even Elrond, could offer an explanation this rising darkness. But his time and conversations with the longer-lived of the company had taught Legolas much in the past two years. And perhaps it was these discussions that lessened his usual timidity in such company, or perhaps the pain of the past weeks drove him to frankness.

“Sauron returns.”

Every elf in the Council fell quiet and stared at Legolas, but he disregarded their trepidation. He spoke quietly, but what he suspected had to be said, and he no longer cared to mince words. He had seen too much in the mountains for such a simple thing as speech to hold any fear for him.

He went on, “We have known for many centuries that it was the spirit of Sauron that prevented men and elves from destroying the orcs once and for all. Had he been completely destroyed, the orcs would have died out entirely. But they did not, and the survival of the Ring of Power proved that the spirit of the Dark Lord endured. Nearly three thousand years have passed, and a shadow grows over my father’s realm greater than the power of the elves--or we should have dispelled it long ago. And with it, the orcs and spiders also multiply.” Gazing somewhat impatiently at the others, he said forcefully, “There can be only one explanation. It does no good to evade it.”

Slowly, Lord Elrond nodded. “I fear you are right, son of Thranduil. Mithrandir said as much during the Council of Realms two years ago.”

The prince of Mirkwood’s bluntness seemed to have loosened the nervous tongues of the other elves. Glorfindel of Imladris said, “But from whence, then, does the spirit of the enemy draw its power?”

“I know not,” Elrond said grimly. “For all we can learn, the enemy must have the power of the ring to recover his full strength. But his strength grows.”

“But the One Ring is lost to all, including Sauron,” Langcyll said.

“Is it?” At Elrond’s quiet question, none in the Council seemed to draw breath. The lord of Imladris went on, “If the whereabouts of the One Ring remain unknown to the elves, how can we be sure that it is unknown to all?”

Legolas began to think that frank words were not so useful after all. For what Lord Elrond said frightened him as well as all the others in the Council.

***

After the Council, the warriors were invited to the noon meal with Lord Elrond and the other elves of Imladris. Legolas had begged off nearly every meal during the past two weeks, but now he seemed in a hurry to see Faron. Langcyll and Lord Elrond watched discreetly as the two young warriors met and entered the hall together.

Elladan and Elrohir were sitting at the far end of the room at a smaller table with Arwen, and no sooner had Legolas and Faron entered than Elrond’s sons called on them to join that table. Legolas turned questioningly to Langcyll, who gestured briskly for him to join his friends. “Perhaps things shall begin to improve now,” he murmured to Elrond.

For the sake of all concerned, Elrond shared Langcyll’s hope. Faron and Legolas sat side by side at the table and were soon in conversation with Elrond’s children. The two young warriors smiled and spoke with friendliness to the others, but the shadow of grief still darkened their faces. For a moment, Elrond was struck with a painful memory of the shenanigans of five friends…

**

“You sing like a lovesick dwarf, Gaerongil!”

“This coming from one who has the voice of a cave troll? My singing is far superior to yours, Candrochon!”

“Untrue, my voice has been complimented by many a maiden!”

“Of what species?”

“Why you great--”

“Oh, cease this, you both sing equally ill!”

“You could not hold a note in a bucket, Tathar, and I do not recall asking for you opinion!”

“I agree with Tathar, both of your voices would frighten a spider away!”

“Hah! And will His Royal Fastidiousness deign to grace us with a demonstration of his own talents?”

“I shall not lower myself to such immature behavior, Gaerongil of the Goblins, but you are welcome to try!”

“‘The road goes ever on and on--’”

“‘An Elven-maid there was of old--’”

“‘Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady clear--’”

“Ai, how that orc chorus grates upon my ears.”

“Peace, Limloeth, I think I must declare Candrochon the winner.”

“Unfair!”  
**

*Five inseparable friends there were, that day we left the Great Gathering in Mirkwood,* Elrond thought, his heart twisting with grief. *Now two are gone. So young. And the ones who remain shall never be young again.*

***

Legolas knew all was not well when he asked his friends for news of Mirkwood. The way that they stiffened and avoided his eyes told him that what tidings they had were ill. Absently, he accepted the slice of bread Elladan handed him and ate to ease his anxiety while Faron spoke, not noticing that one of his tablemates pressed more food into his hand every time he swallowed.  
  
“I am sorry you must hear this from us, Legolas,” Faron said.

“I cannot avoid hearing tidings of my father forever, even if they are ill. Speak, Faron,” Legolas said.

With a sigh, Faron told him, “After the departure of the first war parties, a party of healers arrived here from Mirkwood to study with Lord Elrond. The Crown Princess Eirien was among them. I heard from them that you had gone without permission…and King Thranduil had taken your departure very badly.”

Faron wavered, and Legolas suddenly found it difficult to swallow. Taking a hasty sip of wine to loosen the knot in his throat, he said softly, “Go on.”

Faron went on, “They said that the King had moved from his regular tree chambers into the deep ones within the caves in the hillside, and that he moved his throne to the great stone hall under the hill. Other than to lead hunting parties, I have heard since that he rarely goes out into the trees at all.”

Nothing could dispel the dismay Legolas felt at this news, and he could not speak for several moments. Legolas and all his siblings had disliked the cave portion of the palace, preferring to live and work in the outer rooms built in the trees. Some of the elder warriors in Mirkwood could remember the days when King Thranduil had built the caverns in the northern mountainside as a secure fortress against an attack from Dol Guldur, but Lórien-bred Queen Minuial had so disliked being underground that all additions to the palace were built outward. At her insistence, the King and Queen of Mirkwood had lived exclusively in the outer rooms, using the cave only for store rooms and a place of potential retreat.

Legolas had inherited his mother’s opinion of caves. He suppressed a shudder and looked at his friends’ eyes. “There is more,” he observed.

This time, it was Arwen who spoke. “Early last autumn, there was an…incident…in Mirkwood that caused the other elven lords great worry. A party of thirteen dwarves had passed through Imladris some months before the Great Gathering and stayed at my father’s house. Mithrandir was with them, along with a very singular hobbit.”

Legolas raised his eyebrows in surprise; he had never seen a hobbit, and they were not known for making journeys away from their western homes. “What could be the purpose of such an odd party?”

“We did not yet know,” Arwen said. “They departed the very next day, to go over the mountains, and we later learned they had been waylaid by many misadventures.”

“Mithrandir, hobbits, and dwarves together; I am not surprised,” Legolas mused, his fascination with such a tale momentarily overcoming the gloom of the past weeks.

“Early last autumn, the company was discovered deep in Mirkwood during the feast time,” Arwen went on.

Legolas blinked. “In Mirkwood?” His insides grew cold when he began to guess what sort of incident might have occurred. *If Father was still in such an embittered state of mind, given the feelings he has always had for the dwarves…such a meeting would not have gone well.* He took a hasty sip of wine.

Arwen read his face like an open book, and nodded in answer to his thoughts. “Mithrandir was no longer with them--and it is a pity, for perhaps his presence could have prevented the…misunderstanding that followed.” Legolas winced involuntarily, but she continued, “The dwarves had had an encounter with spiders to the south of the palace, and…King Thranduil ordered them taken and imprisoned. They…they were put in the dungeons within the caves.”

It was very fortunate that Legolas had swallowed already, or he would have choked. As it was, he was so shocked he could not speak. When he had still been a child, in only his second decade, he and several of his friends had snuck down into the caves in search of the store rooms of treasure that rumors spoke of. Instead, they had gotten lost in the deep passages for many hours, and finally found themselves in the dungeons. They had been well past hysterical terror by the time the king’s searchers found them, and Legolas had had nightmares for weeks.

*How could my father have actually locked someone IN that dreadful place?!*

Finding his voice at last, Legolas asked, “Were they soon released?”

Elladan and Elrohir shook their heads. “They escaped after some time. The hobbit had not been captured along with them and he somehow orchestrated their escape.”

Desperately seeking some rational explanation, Legolas asked, “Even elves who commit great crimes are not imprisoned in the dungeons. There are tree cells for that purpose. What had the dwarves done to enrage my father so?”

Not meeting Legolas’s eyes, Faron said quietly, “King Thranduil…he asked them where they were going. They refused to tell him.”

Legolas stared at him. Rather weakly, he said, “What?”

Nodding to confirm Faron’s words, Elrohir said, “The king wished to know what the purpose of their journey was, that they would dare the perils of Mirkwood. When they would not say, he…confined them to separate cells in the dungeons until one of them chose to tell him.”

“My fa--the king did this?” Legolas felt as though his brain itself had been wrapped up in spider silk. He could not fathom any elf, let alone his father, descending to such cruelty. For several moments, his shock enveloped him like fog, then at last he blinked and saw his companions again. They exchanged glances, and with a sense of utter despair, he realized, “You have still more to impart.”

With a sigh, Faron told him, “It turned out that the dwarves and the hobbit were going to the Lonely Mountain, to slay the dragon Smaug and take his treasure.”

Had Legolas not been so distressed by the earlier news, he would have laughed out loud. As it was, he all but gaped at Faron when he realized the tale of that strange company had not been ended by such folly. “And they are not dead?” he exclaimed.

Faron shook his head, “They succeeded. And the treasure was even greater than the legends told it to be.” Legolas winced on hearing the word “treasure,” for again, he could guess his father’s involvement. “King Thranduil led a large march of elves to the Lonely Mountain, and demanded a share of the treasure with another who claimed to have slain the dragon himself. I know not all the particulars, but the army laid siege to the mountain and the dwarves within.”

It was all Legolas could do not to groan, remembering suddenly his own first encounter with the dwarves…

**

“Hmph! The crown of Mirkwood. He must be that greedy tyrant Thranduil’s spawn…”

**

*“Greedy tyrant,” they called him. Rightly so, it would seem. To think that I once feared my father might be disappointed in me.*

Legolas asked reluctantly, “What happened then?” and took a sip of wine, dreading the reply.

“Having immured yourself inside since your arrival, I would not wonder that you had not yet heard of the Battle of the Five Armies, though it is swiftly becoming legend,” Elrohir said.

This time, Legolas did choke. Stifling his coughs, he managed to say, “I have--” but his mind reeled. *I cannot avoid hearing of it, for the elves in Imladris have talked of nothing else since we first met them in the mountains. My father instigated THAT?!* Aloud, he asked in a reasonably level tone, “The king was involved?”

For once, his friends did not seem embarrassed to tell him. Arwen admitted, “Never have I been so relieved to hear that the goblins and wolves had attacked our kindred, for I fear things would have gone ill had they not at last been reminded who their true enemies are. They were at a stalemate that threatened to become a true battle when the creatures of Mordor also came to strike the mountain, and elves, dwarves, and men, for a time at least, fought together. When it was ended, the treasure was shared by many, and men and elves left the mountain to the dwarves again.”

Legolas sighed, “And the king took a share of the wealth as well, I suppose?” The others nodded. *And how many elves of Mirkwood perished in the battle so you could have your trinkets, Father?* he thought, feeling a rush of intense anger. *I am glad to have given Tathar the crown of Mirkwood. He was one who truly deserved to be called noble, while I am truly ashamed to call myself Thranduil’s son.* His rage was so great that for the moment at least, it drowned out all other emotion, and for once he was able to think of Tathar without sorrow.

***

The dismal lethargy that had followed Tathar’s death had been replaced by a restlessness born of anger. Legolas wandered through Rivendell all afternoon and late into the evening, and still could not slow the rush of ire in his veins. *I am glad we are yet barely halfway through this expedition. I have no desire to return home to face these changes in my father.* He paced fiercely down the path and over a bridge crossing the river, *I must not think that I am somehow to blame for the missteps of the king. Though I may have been sheltered at times--and turned a blind eye at other times--I knew of his love of baubles long before I came of age. The flaws in his character are of his own make, not mine.*

So absorbed was he in these harsh thoughts, that Legolas did not see Langcyll coming and all but blundered into him. But Langcyll did not seem irritated--in fact, he appeared almost relieved by the sight of the fury flashing in the young elf’s dark eyes. Perhaps any emotion other than the bitter hopelessness of recent days was to be welcomed. The captain told him, “Be sure to get some rest tonight, Legolas. The new war parties of Imladris and Mirkwood shall convene tomorrow morning.”

Legolas frowned, “‘Parties?’ I thought we merely intended to form a joint party to ride south.”

Langcyll shook his head. “The events in the mountains, and those in Mirkwood of which you’ve doubtlessly been told,” Legolas nodded, “require that some of our number return to our realm.” He paused, apparently expecting Legolas to say something. When Legolas did not, Langcyll went on, “We gather at dawn. You have tonight, then, to decide whether you wish to continue with the new party or return home.”

As the captain turned to walk away, Legolas considered his two options for a moment. A very short moment. “Langcyll.”

Langcyll turned, and his youngest warrior said evenly, “I will not return to Mirkwood before the mission is done.”

The captain nodded, and walked on, but as he turned back, Legolas saw him smile. *At least I cannot claim that I’ve not known the guidance of elves with integrity. Tuilinn was right. We are fortunate in Langcyll. None more than I.*

***

With the dawn, many elves of Rivendell were about as the warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood gathered to ride. Lord Elrond, his daughter Arwen beside him, bade an anxious farewell to his sons Elladan and Elrohir, who had chosen to travel with the warriors of Mirkwood. Also among the warriors of Imladris was Faron.

The new war party had been formed, smaller than the one that had left Mirkwood. From Imladris, Faron, Elladan, Elrohir, and Glorfindel were joining the mission south through the mountains towards Moria. From the original Mirkwood party, Langcyll, Legolas, Elunen, Glanaur, Galithil, Nathron, and Fanfirith would continue the journey. The seven remaining warriors of Mirkwood would ride back across the mountains to Mirkwood.

Elrond stood upon the porch of the Last Homely House and listened to the talk of the warriors. Legolas seemed over the worst of the grief for his friend Tathar--or at least, the grief was no longer life-threatening. But he was upset for another reason now, and arguing vigorously with Tuilinn, one of the young warriors of Mirkwood, who had elected to return home.

“We should not be separated now after all this!” the young prince was pleading with his friend to change her mind.

The redheaded maiden looked down, “The rest of this journey would be a torment, Legolas. I shall ride again, but not this mission. We each of us face our sorrow in different ways; you with great courage, but I shall find my comfort at home.”

Legolas turned away, looking distressed. “Of them all, you…you understand…”

Tuilinn put her hand on his shoulder, “I did. And I shall miss you as much as I shall miss…in any case, Mirkwood also calls its defenders home. I shall return, defend our realm against the shadow, and seek the solace of the trees.” The warrioress smiled at him, “Do not despair, Legolas, you live and you are young. As am I. We shall ride together again. Come, my dear friend, let us not have a bitter parting.”

The warriors were being ordered to mount up, and Legolas and Tuilinn swiftly embraced. Sad farewells also followed between the other warriors of Mirkwood who would be returning to their realm. All too soon, it seemed to Elrond, the command to ride was given, and the two parties set off down the road, his sons among them.

*Suddenly I understand all too well Thranduil’s behavior, though I may have thought it irrational at the time. For I too am without a wife, with only my children to give me hope for the future. Fifteen rode from Mirkwood, and already one of their youngest shall never return home. Would that I had been able to find a reason to prevent Elladan and Elrohir from departing. May the Valar protect all our children during these perilous times*

***

The parties divided in the Misty Mountains; seven warriors continuing east for Mirkwood, and ten turning south, toward the ancient dwarf realm of Moria. Legolas found himself looking back in the directions his companions had gone. How strange this party felt now, without Gwilwileth’s advice, Fandoll’s observations on their surroundings, and Tuilinn’s laughter, not that she had laughed at all since Tath--he forced his mind from the knowledge that life would forever be strange without the presence by his side of the one who would never return.

He sighed; it had been inevitable that the company should eventually be separated, but it sorrowed him nonetheless. On the other hand, he had been reunited with many old friends. Glorfindel rode beside Langcyll at the front of the company, Elladan and Elrohir were riding side-by-side (as always) just behind, and Faron’s horse had fallen in next to Legolas.

Neither of them spoke. During the last few days of the stay in Imladris, Legolas had found sufficient news to distract him from the thoughts of Tath--from unpleasant thoughts. But now as the company began the first of many days and nights of long, quiet riding, the pain that he had forced into the deepest corners of his mind threatened to surge forth again and overwhelm him. *I must not think of it I must not think of it I must not think of it I must not--*

“So we are off,” Faron said quietly. Feeling an explosive surge of relief, Legolas nodded. The silence grew heavy with the weight of the subject that both of them found too painful to speak of. “How did you like Rivendell?” his friend blurted.

“Very well,” Legolas said quickly, eager to veer into any other topic of discussion. “I’ve heard much about it, but never seen it before now. I see now why men call it the paradise village. There is no shadow there, nor do I think there ever could be.”

Faron nodded, then there was more silence. The Imladris warrior said desperately, “Have you met any dwarves yet? I know there were not as many to the east of Mirkwood when you passed from its borders, but there are many now.”

“Just a few days out of Mirkwood, we met a small dwarf party. I found them…disagreeable.”

Faron laughed weakly. “So did I when I first encountered them. But the party that came through Rivendell before the Gathering rather changed my opinion, or perhaps they were simply a rarity.”

“I should think so, if Mithrandir and an adventurous hobbit were traveling with them,” Legolas knew they were both babbling, but he cared not. Any distraction was welcome. “After all, ‘adventurous hobbit’ is practically like a contradiction in terms--”

**

“Any sensible orc will hole himself up in a cave until warmer weather.”

“‘Sensible orc’ is a contradiction in terms, Tathar!”  
**

“--Legolas?”

Legolas jumped and saw Faron looking apprehensively at him. He had no idea what he had been saying. “I…”

“You were saying that the dwarves in that party most likely were unusual, traveling with Mithrandir and a hobbit, and now that you mention it, I believe you are right, for normal dwarves do not welcome the presence of any who might desire a share in their treasure.” Faron said all of this very fast.

***

As darkness descended (the party was still too close to Imladris for an effective orc hunt) the company made camp. Legolas tossed down his bedroll while trying not to look at it, or Faron’s, and paced quickly away. Langcyll and Glorfindel were conferring near the horses and Glorfindel turned to call for watchers. Even before Legolas had the chance to open his mouth, Langcyll turned to him and said simply, “No.”

Legolas blinked. “That goes for you as well, Faron,” added Glorfindel. Faron blinked.

Fanfirith and Nathron took first watch, and Legolas desperately searched for a means of escape. Waiting until Langcyll’s back was turned, the young elf scrambled down an embankment at the edge of the camp to a mountain creek not far away. It was not so far from the camp as to be dangerous, but Legolas could not bear the sight of others for one moment longer.

He sat down next to the rippling water and drew his knees up under his chin. *I cannot do this. I have only just managed to bring it under control. If I allow it to escape again, it will take me, and I will be as lost as before!* But even these thoughts threatened to lead into the memories where Legolas dared not go, lest he lose all control. *NO! I must not think of it I must not think of it I must not think of it--*

“Legolas.” Legolas gasped and leapt to his feet, so startled was he. Then he flushed and looked down in embarrassment. It was Langcyll. Leaving the camp without permission or bothering to tell anyone where he had gone was irresponsible, and Langcyll would probably have harsh words for him. But Legolas was secretly relieved--he would rather face Langcyll’s censure than the thoughts that had been threatening to spill into his mind a moment before.

So he stood as though bracing himself for a thorough tongue-lashing, like novices always did after being caught playing pranks, and hoped that would trigger a scolding. But there was silence. Legolas dared a glance at the captain’s face, and saw no disapproval at all. Desperate to drive Langcyll into a more domineering response, Legolas tried folding his arms sullenly, as Candrochon always had whenever he got into trouble. That earned him a rather exasperated sigh, and Legolas nearly sighed himself with relief. *Thank the Valar, it worked.*

At least it seemed so at first. “Legolas, I have been your novice master from the time you were sixty years old, and your captain since your coming of age, so I think I may claim to know you fairly well,” Langcyll said mildly. Legolas attempted to look insolent by pursing his lips, and Langcyll went on, “So attempting to pull off that famous Candrochon sulk does not fool me.”

Legolas forgot himself and looked up, and saw the fullness in Langcyll’s eyes. It came upon him then, sweeping over him like a great wave, and he was as helpless to stop it as he had been to stop the avalanche in the mountains. As Langcyll’s face blurred, Legolas frantically tried to whirl away, but the captain grabbed his shoulder. He did not pull Legolas back, but he did not let him go.

“You cannot run, Legolas. There is no escape in distraction. You must face your grief. It will never lessen until you do.”

The dam broke again with a single choked sob, and Legolas covered his face with his hands as great tearing sobs forced themselves free. He felt helpless to control his own body.

Over the sound of his own weeping, he heard Langcyll say quietly, “I have lost many close friends in my lifetime, young Legolas. It is a journey in itself, harder than any mission you shall ever travel. But you cannot escape by not thinking of it. I know how you grieve, Legolas. I share it. I, too, miss Tathar, his merriment, and his jests, even that irritating, childish snort--”

“Stop it!” Legolas cried, jerking away. “Do you seek to torment me?!”

He would have run, but Langcyll seized his arm and demanded, “Do you seek to dishonor his memory by forgetting him?”

“No!”

“Then why will you not speak of him?” the captain snapped.

“Because I cannot,” Legolas cried. He could not see, for stinging tears had blinded him. Struggling with limited success to push back the sobs once more, he said, “I have a duty to the rest of the company; you said so yourself. I cannot fall back into such hopelessness again, and when I think of--when the thought of--” he could scarcely speak for sobbing, “--I find nothing but despair. I had begun to get over it in Rivendell, and I must not fall back into it again--”

“No, Legolas.” Langcyll’s voice was quiet, understanding. “You were only distracted by tidings more pressing. You were only entering the stage of grief that follows shock and despair. You cannot deny all thought of him. You have far to come yet.”

Legolas felt his legs giving way and fell to his knees, despair surging through him. “I cannot do it. It will destroy me--”

“It will not. We will not let that happen. Tathar would not wish that to happen. You must allow yourself to think of Tathar, Legolas, and remember him. He would never permit you to give up.”

Angry now, Legolas turned on Langcyll. “You know nothing of which you speak. Were it not for me, Tathar would not have been on this accursed mission. Were it not for my foolish, reckless choice, he would never have joined such a dangerous expedition. He only came because he wished to be beside me.” Sobs overtook him again, “He wanted to join the mission to explore Fangorn. He had always wanted to see Fangorn, and we always used to plan to visit it together. So many places he wanted to see--”

Legolas was crying so hard that he had lost the ability to form words. He could see and hear nothing, and his sobs gave him little space to draw breath. Desperately, he focused on the hard grip of Langcyll’s hand upon his shoulder as a rudder for his sanity, and managed to pull himself from the maelstrom of hysterical grief. At last, he was back on the bank again, gasping for breath, feeling the hard stones beneath his knees, and Langcyll still gripped his shoulder.

“Denying yourself a future will not bestow one upon him, Legolas,” the captain said. “Had you been the one slain, your last desire would have been for Tathar to carry on, and follow his dreams, as you were unable to. I knew him from a child as well, and his last thoughts were of you, for your future. You have not lost him; he lives on in the power of your friendship. Do not deny that by denying his memory.”

At last, the sobs had all forced themselves from within him, leaving him feeling empty, weak, and slightly sick--the physical result of such emotional excess. He actually felt chilled in the soft evening breeze. With a deep, shuddering sigh, Legolas accepted Langcyll’s help getting to his feet, and they returned to the camp. Langcyll did allow him to sleep on the outside of the group so that he might be alone with his thoughts for this night at least. It also probably had something to do with the fact that one of the campfires was on the outskirts of the camp, so Legolas laid his blankets there while Langcyll built the blaze up again.

No sooner had he laid down than deep weariness overtook him, and dreams swept up to claim his drained and exhausted mind. He was dimly aware of Langcyll saying something to him, but he made no sense of the words, or they surely would have startled him. “Sleep now, my s--good night, Legolas.”

***

Glorfindel of Imladris had been forced to have a similar conversation with Faron that evening, though he had not been half as worried about his own warrior as Langcyll had been about Legolas. But Faron, too, had begun to flee from anything that reminded him of either of his lost friends, and Glorfindel had had to convince him that such flight would help neither him nor Legolas.

*It is Legolas that Langcyll worries about. Faron worries for him as well, that is why he shut out his own pain. Their worries are still justified.* But with the morning had come another day, and as the company prepared to ride, Glorfindel stood next to Langcyll, watching their youngest warriors.

Legolas and Faron had risen, both with red eyes, but less withdrawn than yesterday. When Glanaur walked by and clapped each of them on the back in passing, both smiled at him. Now, they were packing the horses for a day of hard riding that would take them out of the borders of Imladris, where the hunting would begin. Galithil, a younger warrioress from Mirkwood, had come up and was chatting with the two as they helped to break camp. A rather tense moment came when Elladan threw an apple to each of them. Faron began munching on his at once, but Legolas stiffened and stared at his as though it were a dragon‘s egg.

Glorfindel noticed Langcyll stiffen as well, from the corner of his eye. The two warriors watched tensely as Faron shot Legolas a questioning glance. Legolas met his friend’s eye, smiled sadly, and bit into the apple. Langcyll breathed a sigh of relief.

“Today is a better day, I think,” Glorfindel remarked, watching as Faron and Legolas joined a group of the other warriors.

“I hope you are right,” Langcyll said. “He has been trapped in the shadows for many weeks. It will still be a long time until he can leave that place behind.”

“Elves can survive many things, my friend,” Glorfindel replied firmly. “Faron survived such a loss two years ago. So will Legolas.”

What the warrior captains saw next seemed to confirm Glorfindel’s confidence. As they continued breaking camp, Faron suddenly put out a hand and stopped Legolas from returning to the group. He reached inside his tunic and pulled out a small pouch, the sort of thing a traveler might carry valuables in. From the pouch, Faron brought out a pearl--a black pearl--and handed it to Legolas. Then he walked on, and Legolas stood motionless as though he had grown roots.

***

Holding Faron’s gift in his hand, Legolas managed to walk a few paces away and sat down upon a rock, gazing at the pearl in the early morning sun. It sat in the palm of his hand, perfectly round and darkly lustrous, the size of a large blueberry. And he could not help it; his mind was drawn back…

**

“The wager was over whom Lalven would be matched to, Tathar, not who she would ask for. You declared victory too soon!”

“There, now, even your own comrade, the prince of Mirkwood agrees that the prize falls to me! Come, hand over my pearl, and you owe me yet another one!”

“Traitor!”

“Hold out for the black pearl, Faron, to the victor go the spoils!”

“Ah, now here’s a pretty thing! See, Gaerongil?”

“Indeed! So rare, pearls of such color!”

“Curse you Imladris gamblers, and you, Legolas, for taking their side!”

“Do not blame me, Tathar, it is not my fault they play odds better than you!”

**

Rolling the smooth, dark pearl in the palm of his hand, few tears spilled from Legolas’s eyes, but he felt no need to fall apart like before. Tathar had been one of the friends who got lost with Legolas while searching for treasures in the caves when they were children, but for a time, Tathar had been separated from the rest. He had not seemed nearly so hysterical when the searchers found him, and insisted he had simply been lost like the rest of them in another part of the dungeons. But pearls did not grow in the forests of Mirkwood.

For some reason, Legolas smiled. *At least I did not tell Faron and Gaerongil your secret, Tathar. The black pearl was never your favorite, though it was the most valuable. Yours was the white one shaped like a teardrop. Faron would never think to ask for it when tantalized with this. You and I had the last laugh.*

Footsteps jolted him back to the present. It was Langcyll again. Seeing the captain’s curious expression, Legolas held the pearl up and explained, “Faron won it from Tathar in a wager during the Gathering.”

Langcyll smiled slightly, “Generous of him to give it up.”

Legolas looked down, “He knows I will treasure it.”

The novice master of Mirkwood said, “It is time to be moving on now.”

Legolas nodded quickly and put the pearl in his own pouch. “I am ready.” He knew Langcyll caught his meaning.

With the warriors assembled, the company mounted their horses and formed up behind Langcyll and Glorfindel. Legolas smiled gratefully at Faron as they prepared to ride together.

At the front of the group, Langcyll glanced back over all his warriors out of habit, his gaze lingering only for a second on Legolas. Then he raised his hand and ordered, “Forward!”

The company rode out and down along the creek that rolled through the mountains, swiftly here and lazily there. At one bend, they passed beneath a willow tree, its branches drooping into the water, and Legolas closed his eyes and held on, letting the leaves brush over him…

**

“I shall not try out for the Gathering Trial unless you do also. It is your destiny, Legolas.”

“My destiny? To compete in an archery game?”

“To be great. And of course, you shall win, but the Trial will be only the beginning. You were not blessed with so many gifts without a reason. I think in the fullness of time, your name shall be legend.*

“I think you are mad, Tathar. In any case, I do not want to compete against you. You and I have never been on opposite sides. If you were not at my side, I would be nervous.”

“Pfft, when are you ever not nervous? The time will come when you must move beyond me, otherwise you would hold yourself back. But why do you sorrow at that? You know that whenever circumstances separate us, I shall be with you, at your side and at your back. As always.”

**  
*****

CHARACTER GUIDE: The Warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood

Langcyll and Glorfindel: joint leaders of the party  
Elunen and Glanaur: their lieutenants  
Fanfirith and Nathron: senior warriors  
Elladan, Elrohir, Galithil: younger but experienced warriors  
Legolas, Faron: the youngest of the group, both from the same generation that just came of age

Lanthir: Legolas’s horse

Tuilinn: warrioress that Tathar had paired off with, went back to Mirkwood with the other half of Langcyll’s war party  



	11. Ears and Beards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

Several weeks later…

“If you loathe dwarves so much, Galithil, you could always have gone on the Anduin mission,” Legolas said irritably. The company was making good time on the journey south through the Misty Mountains and consequently, coming ever closer to the great dwarf stronghold of Moria.

But the incessant carping of one of the company about how the infinite failings of that short race were beginning to exasperate the son of Thranduil. “I merely point out that we would do well to guard our belongings when we draw near to Moria,” Galithil said curtly, irked by Legolas’s retort. “Those dwarves will make off with anything made of metal.”

“Peace, Legolas, Galithil,” Glorfindel said as he joined the company by the campfire. “Like all races, dwarves have their good and ill qualities, as well as good and bad individuals. One cannot generalize in either direction.”

Galithil snorted. *At least you always saved your snorts for a good reason, Tathar,* Legolas thought, feeling very cross. He snapped back to attention when Langcyll called for watches. “I will stand a watch.”

Langcyll looked suspiciously at the prince (he no longer thought Legolas in danger of killing himself with his grief, but still hounded him like a doctor over a recently-recovered patient.) But apparently, he found no cause for preventing Legolas, and nodded, “Very well.” Elladan offered to stand the first watch with Legolas, and then Glanaur and Fanfirith would relieve them. “The rest of you, take some rest. There will be orcs about tonight.”

***  
Even in the highest mountain peaks, the summer sun warmed the air, and Elladan spent a very pleasant first watch, standing in the shade of a large tree and feeling the warmed mountain breeze. On the other side of the sleeping warriors, he could see Legolas gazing attentively up the mountain slope.

*How he has changed in two years. His friends and family will scarcely know him when he finally returns home,* Elladan thought. *If he returns.*

The son of Lord Elrond did not believe Legolas was foolish enough to get himself killed, but the news of King Thranduil’s…how to put it…lack of reason back home were likely to drive him even further from Mirkwood. So many things had changed for the young warrior during his travels, and it would be a torture to see how his home had also been altered in his absence. Which was why Elladan had begun to suspect Legolas would consider returning to Imladris and traveling with their warriors, or journeying to one of the other elven realms when this mission was over.

*We elves flee from the things we cannot change,* Elladan thought. *That is why so many of us have traveled over the sea, unhappy with this world and what it has become. I wonder if or when Legolas might grow weary of Middle Earth. The shadow that menaces his realm is enough to drive any elf mad.*

Speaking of being driven mad, Elladan too was tiring of Galithil’s endless grousing about the dwarves. While Elladan did not consider them the wisest (or handsomest) of creatures, Glorfindel had been correct in his estimation of them. In many ways, Elladan rather liked them. Certainly their handiwork was magnificent--he wore a gold and emerald-studded knife crafted by dwarves (he had won it the previous winter from Firith of Lórien in a wager over whether that hobbit would survive his trip back to the Shire.)

*The dwarves still hope to take back their old realm of Moria. Since the defeat of Smaug, they’ve come to believe they can take down any foe. Brave they are, that much is certain. We shall certainly encounter their parties as we draw closer to its gates. I hope Langcyll and Glorfindel entertain no fancies of trying to improve our relations by helping them force their way in. I would not willingly find myself groping about in an orc-infested cave even if it meant peace and prosperity for all Middle Earth!*

Movement across the camp caught Elladan’s eye, and he turned to see that Legolas had stiffened, and was now standing stock-still and looking beyond the camp. He could hear something. A moment later, Elladan’s elven senses picked up the sounds of movement and voices over the next mountains. Whoever it was made little effort to conceal their presence, and seemed to be traveling openly. Legolas turned and looked at Elladan, “Dwarves.”

*So, our encounters begin sooner than I had anticipated. If they also travel to Moria, we will see much of them on the trail until we bear east again for Lórien. I hope Galithil does not spend the entire trip picking quarrels with them.*

The clamor of the dwarves--they truly were such noisy creatures--soon roused the camp. Langcyll and Glorfindel turned to Elladan, who assured them, “All is well. The dwarves have not even noticed our presence yet, though they are but one hill away.”

Elrohir looked around, listening to the sounds of the dwarves crashing through the brush and chuckled, “Making that much noise, I doubt if they would notice an orc camp.”

Faron sat up then, and grinned slyly at Elladan, “Perhaps we should send a scout to inform them of our presence so that they are not frightened out of their dwarven wits when they come upon us.”

“Dwarven wits?” Legolas demanded, laughing. “I have never heard of such a thing!” The others snickered and then the prince added slyly, “Perhaps Galithil would care to volunteer to give our greetings to the dwarves.” He received a rather black look from the warrioress of whom he spoke, and simply laughed harder.

“Why not you, then, Legolas?” Galithil asked snidely. “We all know how wealth impresses the dwarves, perhaps they would be more pleased by the sight of a prince of Mirkwood in our midst, even if he has lost his crown.”

None of the others save Langcyll knew what had happened to the crown, but many of them exclaimed in disapproval and censured Galithil for speaking so crudely. As for Langcyll, he all but leaped from his bedroll and looked anxiously at Legolas, who in turn raised a hand to dismiss the rather callous remark. But Langcyll exchanged a brief glance with Glorfindel, then smiled himself. “For myself, I think Legolas’s idea has merit. Glorfindel, would you care to accompany Galithil to inform the dwarves of our presence on this hillside?”

Glorfindel spoke with an unmistakable touch of glee. “Most certainly, my friend, for I fear that as a simple a people as the dwarves are, it might be beyond Galithil’s scope to engage in any sort of dialogue with them. Perhaps I shall do the speaking, and she shall watch.”

Galithil sat up in outrage, but before she could speak, Langcyll raised a hand. “Very well. Proceed, Glorfindel.” His tone brooked no argument.

Neither did Glorfindel’s. “Come, Galithil. The dwarves await.” The warrioress had no choice but to mount her horse and follow the Imladris captain from the camp.

No sooner had she gone than Legolas had both hands over his mouth, struggling to stifle his laughter. “She shall learn to curb that caustic tongue of hers before this leg of the trip has passed.”

Langcyll folded his arms and smiled blithely at his youngest warrior. “Be sure, young prince, all of this company shall find many attitudes changed before this leg of the trip has passed. Such is the truth with all prejudices. They cannot stand up to the power of true knowledge or experience.” With that, he picked up his water skin and went to fill it in the nearby stream. The others looked on, and exchanged glances, rather sobered by the faint censure in his tone that was directed at them all.

***

The sounds of the dwarves’ romping had ceased not long after Galithil and Glorfindel rode from the camp, and Legolas would have given much to know what passed between the elves and dwarves when they met. It was not long before his two comrades returned, both wearing expressions of combined amusement and aversion. “Well?” Elunen asked.

“They are taking the long way around,” said Glorfindel with the faintest of smiles.

Legolas looked away to hide his own smile. It would not do to get a scolding by Langcyll for his prejudices--*Of course, one can hardly call it a prejudice if the opinion is justified. But Langcyll defends the principle of the thing.*

The captain of Mirkwood was gazing at the reddening sky over the mountaintops. “Make ready to break camp. We move in one hour.”

As the company began repacking the horses, an all-too-familiar portent of danger pricked Legolas’s elven senses. Pausing from retying his bedroll, Legolas looked about and met Glorfindel’s eyes. The older elf smiled faintly. “It will be a long night. Make sure your knife is whetted.”

The others had sensed the presence of orcs as well, and the party continued their work with extra alertness. Legolas reached into his tunic pouch and touched the black pearl. He found himself reaching for it whenever he felt uneasy. In some obscure way, its smooth roundness was a comfort. But packing Lanthir required both of his hands, so he was soon forced to replace it. All the same, some of the anxiety had left him.

The orcs did not attack with the final fading of the sun, but nor did their presence diminish. “Biding their time?” Faron observed, voicing what all the other warriors had taken note of.

“I do not think there are many of them,” Elunen said, pausing to gaze into the darkness. “They may be hoping we will simply pass them by.”

Legolas nearly snorted, but caught himself. Several of the others did snort. “Sauron did not breed orcs for their intelligence,” remarked Fanfirith, and then he did not bother restraining a chuckle.

“Is all ready?” Langcyll asked them pointedly. Seeing the collective nod, he took his horse’s lead. “Then let us move out.” Bows in hand, knives at rest but ready to grab, the company followed on foot leading their mounts. Tonight’s orc hunt promised many kills.

They did not have long to wait. The presence of the orcs watching the company abruptly shifted before they had walked far down the mountainside, and every elf in the company knew that the fell band was also on the move. “They come!” Faron exclaimed, reaching for an arrow.

“Nay,” Langcyll looked troubled, for the screeches of orcs readying for battle filled the air, but the creatures did not seem to be menacing the company. “They are attacking, but not--” His keen elven senses following the sounds and awareness of the orcs, he looked back in the direction from whence the party had come. “The dwarf camp! The orcs menace the dwarves!”

“Will we follow?” Elunen asked, looking anxious.

“Glorfindel, how many dwarves were in the party you spoke to?” Langcyll asked quickly.

“Perhaps a dozen. We must go to their aid, Langcyll, even if we are unwelcome, the orcs must not escape,” Glorfindel said resolutely.

“Then mount at once!” With that, Langcyll sprang upon his horse’s back and rode back past the company at a gallop. Mounting their own horses, the other warriors followed, readying their bows and knives.

They had reached the top of the hill where they had camped when the screeches of orcs were met by dwarf battle cries and the clang of metal that heralded the start of battle. The horses did not take long covering the distance to the next hill where the dwarves had made their camp. They galloped into the torchlight without slowing, sprang from their horses, and with a great shout, launched themselves into the melee already taking place.

Falling with a shout of his own, Legolas leaped upon the nearest orc and plunged his knife into its back with a force that took them both into the ground. He sprang up again and nearly faltered when he found himself face to axe with an equally-startled dwarf, who had apparently just been chasing that same orc. The dwarf turned then, seeking some other foe, and Legolas did likewise.

Small or large were relative terms when describing an orc band. Though there were perhaps thirty in this group, they were better-skilled at fighting than some of the parties Legolas had fought over the past two years. He dodged a swipe from an orc’s knife and slashed its throat with his own, then shoved the knife into his belt and launched several arrows at a group of orcs attempting to overwhelm Faron and one of the dwarves. A screech from behind gave warning, and he jerked to the left, whirling and sending an arrow straight between the eyes of another orc.

“Beware!” Legolas heard the shout of warning from an unfamiliar source, but before he could react, a heavy weight slammed him from his feet. Legolas rolled onto his back, raising his knife only to have it kicked from his hand. The next few seconds were a blur even by elven standards. A large orc planted a foot upon the young elf’s chest, knocking the wind from him, and raised its sword over his head to deliver a killing thrust straight into his throat. Even as Legolas flailed frantically for anything to serve as a weapon, another form took shape from the corner of his eye, and in a blur of incredibly swift movement, the orc’s foot was gone from his chest, and the creature was down. Another dwarf pulled its axe from the orc’s back and looked at the elf he had saved.

Legolas leapt to his feet and grabbed his knife from the ground, seeking another orc to slay. But the last few were now fleeing the dwarf camp, and several elves and dwarves were already pursuing them into the darkness. Seconds later, their screeches announced their demise. Catching his breath, Legolas looked around, but the dwarf who had come to his aid was gone.

“Legolas, are you hurt?” Legolas jumped, and turned to face the speaker. It was Faron, and there was concern upon his face. “I saw you struck.”

“Nay, I am all right,” Legolas replied, though his chest and back ached with every breath. But other than bruises, he did not think anything was damaged. He looked around, “There was a dwarf…”

Faron nodded. “I should have liked to see more of how they fight. One fought beside me against the orcs, but now I do not see him. They are a strange race.”

“Very,” Legolas agreed, and they returned to their comrades.

There had been few injuries to either party. Elladan insisted on looking at Legolas’s chest and back to make certain his ribs or lungs had taken no hurt, but they were both satisfied that he would merely be a little sore for a few days. Elunen had taken an arrow in the leg, but she would be walking in a day or two. Two of the dwarves appeared to have taken wounds, but the hurts had been cared for by the other dwarves and none of their party seemed particularly worried.

That immediate concern past, the two parties now found themselves on opposite sides of the dwarf camp, staring doubtfully at each other and wondering who would be the first to speak. At last, almost at the same instant, Langcyll and Glorfindel started toward the dwarves just as two of the dwarves began approaching the elves. They met in the center. “Well met, Master Elf,” said the dwarf who appeared to be head of the company. “I am Naldin, son of Óin, and this is Sothi, son of Dwalin. You have our thanks for your timely arrival.”

Legolas was not surprised by the somewhat grudging tone in which the Naldin expressed his gratitude--he was, however, surprised that the dwarf thanked the elves at all. Though Langcyll and Glorfindel doubtlessly noticed the tenor of the dwarf’s speech, they made no outward sign. “Well met, Naldin, son of Óin. I am Langcyll, captain of the warriors of Mirkwood.”

“I am Glorfindel of Imladris. We too owe you our gratitude for your stand beside our warriors. The foul creatures of Sauron are the enemy of all the free peoples of Middle Earth.”

Glorfindel and Langcyll exchanged bows with the dwarves, but now both sides appeared to be waiting once again. Suspicion had bristled on Naldin’s brow, and he asked, “What business have you in these lands?”

*The dwarves always seem to ask that, even in lands that belong to neither them nor us,* Legolas thought sardonically.

“We are hunting orcs,” Langcyll answered. “We have come south from Imladris.”

“This course will take you close to Moria,” Sothi observed. “That is where we go.”

“Moria?” Glorfindel looked doubtful. It was well-known that the children of Durin had abandoned the ancient stronghold long ago when it had been taken by orcs and other fell demons. Legolas suppressed a shudder at the thought of one of those demons in particular.

“Balin of the Lonely Mountain has sent us to scout the mines of Moria,” Naldin said, lifting his chin (invisible beneath a long beard) in response to the dubious tone of the elf. “The dwarves intend to take back their old realm. The foul creatures of the Enemy shall not claim it for much longer.”

Langcyll nodded, but to Legolas’s eye, it seemed more like a shrug, “Then we wish you every success. We must ride on if you’ve no further need of assistance.”

“Farewell then,” the dwarves bowed again, and Langcyll and Glorfindel bowed in turn.

As the captains rejoined their respective warriors, Legolas heard several of the dwarves muttering among themselves, “We never needed their assistance in the first place.” He caught Galithil and Faron rolling their eyes at him, and grinned. He was beginning to agree with Galithil’s estimate of the dwarves.

***

To the irritation of all concerned, the elf and dwarf parties seemed to be traveling at the exact same pace, causing them to encounter each other every few days. “Make ready to break camp--dwarves again, Elrohir?” Glorfindel asked with a slight smile.

Elrohir, who had been standing watch, nodded down the hillside. “They’ve taken to traveling at night also.” He pulled his mouth to one side, “I think we shall be on the same path.”

Glorfindel detected several discreet groans from the younger warriors of the party. “Well then, we shall have to tolerate them.”

“And vice versa,” he heard Faron whisper to Legolas, earning a muffled snicker in return.

Langcyll walked up beside Glorfindel. “These next few miles of trail look to be smooth. We may ride tonight; it will not be difficult for the horses.”

With a nod, Glorfindel ordered the warriors to mount, then paused as he considered the formation. “Elladan and Elrohir, you shall bring up the rear. Oh Elladan? Which side do the dwarves come from?”

“They are coming up from the west, Glorfindel.”

“Very well.” With a sly glance at Langcyll, Glorfindel ordered, “Galithil, you shall flank us on the west.” He was forced to quash a smile at the look of dismay on the face of the warrioress, then took note of the smirk that Legolas and Faron exchanged. “And you, Legolas.” Legolas looked decidedly less than enthusiastic.

“Mount up!” Langcyll ordered. “We ride south.” Catching Glorfindel’s eye, he added, “Faron, you will ride the western flank over the next mountain.” (Faron had been grinning just a bit too broadly at Legolas and Galithil.)

Within ten minutes, the slowly-riding company spotted the party of dwarves walking up the trail towards them. The dwarves looked no more enthusiastic than Legolas had about these circumstances. In a jovial voice, Langcyll said, “Good evening, dwarves of the Lonely Mountain.” He received a chorus of grunts in return.

***

Legolas enjoyed the rare opportunities to actually ride Lanthir in the mountains, for he would never dream of straining his horse. However, this was NOT the way he desired to spend the next stretch of trail. He was not close enough to the rest of the company to talk without being overheard by the dwarves (thus eliminating what might have been some amusing conversation) and talking to the dwarves was…not exactly Legolas’s idea of stimulating conversation. So other than to respond to the questions of the other elves, Legolas rode in stony silence and wished the trip would end.

He glanced at the objects of his thoughts. They were muttering amongst themselves (either unaware or unconcerned that elven senses could easily hear every word they said) and much of their conversation involved disparaging talk about the elves riding parallel to them.

*At least I no longer wear the crown of Mirkwood. Being from Lonely Mountain, this band would have plenty to say about my father. And it gall me further to admit that much of it was true.*

“I’ve heard of three of the Imladris elves from my father,” Naldin was saying. “The sons of Elrond may at least be trusted. Thorin and his company received fair treatment from Imladris at least.”

“For myself,” said another dwarf whose name Legolas did not know, “I do not trust any elf any further than I could throw him.”

*Than you must trust us not at all,* Legolas thought, a smile coming unbidden to his lips. *Were I to apply that standard, I would have to trust you a very long way.* He caught Galithil glancing back at him and grinned in response to her raised eyebrows. She grinned back and winked at him, *She knows I am swiftly coming round to her way of thinking.*

“I certainly would not trust any elf of Mirkwood,” one of the other dwarves was saying. “And they say that we dwarves are greedy. They are not only greedy for the same gems and metals that we love, and are too lazy to even work such things themselves. The emeralds of Girion--hmph! Had I been Thorin, I would have told that elvenking where to stick his twelfth share, Battle of Five Armies or no!”

“Greedy as an orc, that Thranduil. Probably would’ve let Naldin’s father rot in his dungeons along with Thorin and the rest of them were it not for that little hobbit.”

“Aye, Lorben, can’t say I blame the hobbit for all his part. Hobbits aren’t cut out for such ventures as that journey turned into. From what Balin told me, I myself would’ve been itching for a warm fire and peace and quiet by the time it was all over. Don’t know how the hobbit bore it all.”

“Didn’t take a very large share of the wealth, either. Generous, I’ll say that for him. Nothing like those elves.”

“Nay, you can never trust an elf. Especially a wood elf. I wouldn’t mind running into this party if they were all from Imladris, but more than half of them are Thranduil’s lackies. That Langcyll is Mirkwood’s first captain.”

“That one is Langcyll? Dáin ran into him two years ago coming out of Mirkwood with a bunch of his warriors. Said one of Thranduil’s sons was with him.”

Legolas felt his stomach twist painfully and turned to keep the dwarves from seeing his face. But that remark had aroused the curiosity of the other dwarves. “Think this is the same party? Which one do you suppose he is?”

“All the Mirkwood elves look the same. Except that one--he looks like he hails from Lórien. Don’t know what inter-realm marriage alliance spawned him. Did all of Thranduil’s get resemble his looks? I’ve seem the elvenking a few times before they went back to Mirkwood.”

“Can’t tell. Dáin said his son wore the crown of Mirkwood then, but that was well before Thorin arrived.” There was a snide chuckle, “Probably lost it, if the orcs in these mountains have been as bad as they say. A lot of elves died at Lonely Mountain, and I’ve heard they’re losing a lot more than they planned on in their war parties as well.”

Legolas had been listening previously out of bored curiosity, but now he wished he could shut their voices out. Reaching inside his tunic, he fumbled for Tathar’s pearl and pulled it from his pouch, rolling it over and over in his fingers.

**  
“There, Legolas, now you have met dwarves!”  
**

Langcyll was riding toward the center of the company, but his hearing was more than keen enough to detect the conversation taking place among the dwarves. He was content to ignore it until the subject turned to King Thranduil--and Legolas. *Thank the Valar they did not recognize him.*

He could see Legolas flanking the company closer to the dwarf party. Sticking Legolas there had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now Langcyll was having doubts. There was no cause to torment the prince by forcing him to listen to this sort of talk, and it was highly unlikely that overhearing it would remedy the young elf’s prejudices. Just the opposite was likely.

“Le--” he nearly called the prince’s name aloud, then caught himself. *They’ll know the names of Thranduil’s sons. Call his name and you guarantee that he’ll have their undivided attention.* As it was, Legolas had already managed to get the attention of at least one of the dwarves, who had noticed the pearl the elf warrior was holding. *So how to get Legolas’s attention?* Aloud, Langcyll said, “Change the formation. Elladan and Elunen, take the western flank. Nathron and Fanfirith, bring up the rear. Elrohir and Galithil, on the eastern flank.”

There was no mistaking the gratitude in the quick glance Legolas gave him as he traded places with Elladan. Then Legolas glanced back at the dwarves and noticed the one staring at Tathar’s pearl. With a distinctively defensive expression, the prince slipped the pearl back into his pouch and rode to the opposite side of the formation--effectively putting as much distance between himself and the dwarves as possible.

Langcyll sighed inwardly. *They are not all that way, but there would be no point in saying so to Legolas at this juncture. Better to wait and see if events change his opinion of the dwarves.*

***

With the rising of the sun, the two companies made camp on opposite sides of the hill they were on. “If I had been forced to hear one more dwarven grunt, I would not have been responsible for my actions,” Galithil remarked, coming to claim her share of rations.

Faron chuckled along with Fanfirith and Nathron, but Legolas did not laugh. He seemed in another world altogether. Faron glanced over his shoulder and saw that Langcyll and Glorfindel were in conversation with Elladan and Elrohir, and several glances were being directed at Legolas. Faron had heard the talk among the dwarves--consequently, he had cringed repeatedly throughout the ride.

And now Legolas had retreated into that distracted silence that always betrayed an inner disquiet. Langcyll, Glorfindel, and the rest of the warriors joined them, but Legolas stared at the fire and did not look up. The conversations flowed among the other elves while the son of Thranduil gave no indication that he heard a word that was said.

Rather quickly, Elladan addressed the group in general in a cheerful voice, “So! Are we enjoying our extended relations with the dwarves?”

Laughter and snorts were the collective response to this question, and Legolas did crack a slight smile. “Surely, Elladan, I learned a great deal from my stint along our flank,” Faron said in a voice dripping with honey. “I learned that dwarves cannot live without malt beer--”

“Malt beer or beards?” Fanfirith quipped, earning laughter all around.

“Well, those beards must be good for carrying tools or weapons,” suggested Elrohir.

“They are short, smelly, and they dress…peculiarly,” Galithil put in. “The last dwarf I met had breath that could slay a dragon at twenty paces.”

“I suppose that would explain how they slew Smaug,” Faron remarked.

“They were valiant enough against the orcs, but against a large foe, surely they could not put up much of a fight. One would need only to step on them,” Nathron added.

“They have a very peculiar walk, for that matter. Rather like a waddle,” said Elladan. “Eh, Legolas?”

“What? Ah, yes.”

“What do you think of the dwarves, Legolas?” Langcyll asked casually. It did not escape Faron that Langcyll had taken the other warriors to task for speaking so disparagingly of any other race of Middle Earth.

Twirling an arrow in his fingers, Legolas replied, “I think they care a great deal for their own troubles, and nothing for the troubles of others, but they are quick to condemn others for the same behavior.”

“Legolas, if you were any more gloomy, I think bats would use you for a perch,” Elrohir said.

At last, he got a reaction. Legolas looked up incredulously, “Bats do not perch!”

Elladan muffled a snort behind his hand, and his twin glared at him. “Well, they…they…”

“They hang, you great half-wit!” Elladan laughed, and the others soon joined in--including Legolas, to Faron’s relief.

“Perhaps that is what those great, heavy helms are for,” Legolas suggested. “Otherwise, they might be at constant risk of being stepped upon by larger foes.” It was a rather weak jest, but the others laughed heartily. At least Legolas seemed in a better humor.

Later that afternoon, Faron returned from standing first watch to find Legolas lying in his bedroll. At first glance, the young warrior seemed asleep, for he lay motionless, with his hands upon his chest, staring at nothing in particular. But there was a slight tenseness in his jaw, and his eyes were a shade too alert for sleep.

Faron casually crawled into his own bedroll, not that he needed to be wrapped in blankets in midsummer. “You should be sleeping, Legolas. Elunen told me we shall see more action tonight.”

Legolas did not move or even react--other than to pull his mouth to one side in a sort of half-grimace. “Unless the clamor from those dwarves makes them believe there is an entire army coming over these hills.”

Shaking his head, Faron propped himself up on his elbow, “Are you still ruffled at their idle chatter? Surely you cannot expect dwarves to be paragons of sensitivity.”

Legolas sighed, but turned his head to face Faron, “You speak the truth. I do not know why I let their words upset me.”

“Because we did not lose as many elves as they would think,” said Langcyll, who had quietly come up behind Legolas. The prince sat up quickly, and the two youngest warriors faced the captain of Mirkwood. “I have also heard dwarf rumor that our parties have lost more than half of their number.” He smiled wryly at the astonished expressions of Faron and Legolas. “Yes, I was equally surprised by such exaggerations. But, then I suppose their misconception can be understood. For all the mourning with which we elves greet one lost life, it would seem to them that many lives might have been lost. It is not a dwarven fault, rather a misconception among all mortals, that elves take life for granted due to our immortality. Nay, we did not lose so much in number over recent years, but still we lost too much.”

Faron had felt a lump rising in his own throat as Langcyll’s words struck home, then in a rush of anxiety, he stole a quick glance at Legolas. The past few weeks had been so eventful that it had been easy to forget that less than three months had passed since Tathar of Mirkwood had perished. And it had been even less time since Legolas’s grief had been so deep that Langcyll and Glorfindel had been frantic to reverse his condition.

To Faron’s relief, though his friend had gone very pale, he showed no sign of that black hopelessness that had threatened his life in the first weeks after Tathar’s death. The younger elf’s hand stole into his tunic pouch, and sunlight reflected on the dark luster of the black pearl as Legolas caressed it absently.

The action had caught Langcyll’s eye as well, “Have a care there, Legolas. I saw at least one of the dwarves noticing your keepsake. Its value may be sentimental to you, but forget not that its worth is considerable in other respects. The dwarves do not actively wish us ill, but if they begin to covet something that belongs to us…” he let the thought dangle, and Legolas hastily slipped the pearl back into his pouch and looked about as though expecting someone to try and grab it.

Faron thought to himself, *Langcyll gives the dwarves more credit than they deserve. While they are not the Enemy by any means, I think they do surpass many beings in the measure of malice. They would covet Legolas’s pearl for its price, certainly, but I believe they would desire it all the more if they knew why he treasures it.*

***

The following night found elves and dwarves traveling the same trail once again, albeit with a little more space in between their parties this time. “We are not far from Moria,” Glorfindel observed as he walked beside Langcyll at the front of the company. “These hills are pockmarked with caves.”

The company was well spread-out, elven senses on full alert for fell creatures that might be using one of the many caves as a den. Langcyll and Glorfindel were front and center, leading the string of horses, with Elladan and Elrohir flanking to their right and Fanfirith and Glanaur on the left, Elunen and Nathron behind, and Galithil, Legolas, and Faron scouting around them. “Take care,” Elunen warned the company. “The ground is of rock, but these hills are riddled with hollows and tunnels. There is a danger of breaking through.”

“Oh, so that is how the dwarves do their tunneling,” Langcyll heard Galithil saying to someone, and the muffled laughter in response identified it to be Legolas.

Langcyll opened his mouth to chide them both, but an oddly distorted screech caught him. All the elves froze, uncertain. “Where--” Elladan began.

Legolas appeared from the clump of bushes he had been examining, and exclaimed, “Beneath us. They have a cave entrance somewhere near.” The young warrior looked about, appearing baffled as to how they should proceed.

Taking a swift opportunity, Langcyll said sternly, “It is a shame the dwarves are not closer; we would benefit from their GREATER expertise in this instance.” The blushes on both faces confirmed that his rebuke had not been missed. That dealt with, he went on, “Spread out in pairs and be wary. Do not stray too far from the main group.”

Faron quickly joined Legolas and Galithil, and the trio moved out ahead of the main party. Elladan and Elrohir moved down through the trees to the east, and Fanfirith and Elunen to the west. Then the screeches came again, this time undistorted by ground or distance--and behind them.

“Beware!” Langcyll spun around, drawing his bow, and saw orcs charging them from openings in the ground that he still could not see. That fact troubled him even as he took aim at the orcs in the very dim light.

They came far too fast and recklessly; the archers were able to pick off a good number of the orcs before they were even close enough to endanger the warriors in the back of the group. But soon Langcyll beheld the reason for their rushed attack: the dwarf party had seen what the elves had missed, and axe-wielding dwarves were pursuing the fell beasts straight into the elves.

“Stand here!” Glorfindel shouted to the company, seeing an opportunity to trap the orcs between a hammer of dwarves and an anvil of elves.

Those orcs that came to fast at the elves were cut down by arrows, and those who tarried were struck down by dwarven axes. In panic, the beasts of Sauron scattered in all directions, and dwarves and elves gave chase.

The orc band had been large, nearly a hundred strong, but their hand had been forced by the dwarf attack, and they could not rally themselves into an effective fighting brigade. Langcyll made his stand protecting the horses with half of his warriors, while Glorfindel and the other half of the elf company assisted the dwarves chasing down the fleeing orcs. When it was clear that all of the orcs were in retreat , Langcyll sprang upon his mount so that his far-seeing eyes might have a better view.

He could see Glorfindel and Elunen with Naldin the dwarf, pursuing a dozen or so orcs down the hillside. Many of the orcs in their desperation to escape had chosen the path of least resistance--literally running along the beaten trail with Elladan, Elrohir, Fanfirith, and Sothi along with several of his dwarves in hot pursuit. Legolas, Faron, and Galithil, along with four other dwarves that Langcyll did not recognize, were pursuing orcs to the west of the trail. The rough, rocky ground shook with the rushing and stomping of many feet, but suddenly a new shudder in the earth warned Langcyll of a new danger.

Feeling the tiny tremor ripple under his feet, Langcyll identified it as not an earthquake but rather the shock of the ground--as something beneath their feet gave way. He felt it as it came, and the way that the horses started betold its direction. Langcyll looked along the hillside towards the source--and saw several elven heads racing up the hillside through the brush in pursuit of fleeing orcs, unaware in their hurry of the bedrock that had cracked directly below them.

Although Langcyll cared greatly for all his warriors, in his deepest heart he could not deny that the sight of the fair hair among the dark elven heads caused his heart to leap to his throat. “Legolas!” he cried, all but standing upon his horse’s back. Legolas stopped in his tracks and stared back at Langcyll, and that pause was enough for the young warrior to also feel the breaking rock beneath his feet. “Run, all of you!” Langcyll shouted frantically, kicking his horse into a run towards them. “Fly!”

***

Had Legolas fled that place at once, he might have escaped the cave-in that was approaching. But he would never seek his own safety without attempting at least to forewarn his comrades, and the dwarves who fought with them. “Galithil, Faron, dwarves, beware!” Legolas shouted. “The ground gives way!”

In spite of the furor of battle, all heard his cry of warning, and both of his companions as well as the dwarves broke off their hunt in search of stable ground. But there was little time left, even as they now felt tiny shocks beneath their feet from cracks that were tracing through the rock layer beneath them. “Back to the trail!” Legolas cried. “Fly, fly!” Seizing Galithil by the hand, seeing Faron just behind them, and waving the dwarves beside them in the proper direction, he sprinted with all his might even as the dirt and sand began to slide beneath their feet.

“Oh no!” Galithil cried out as her feet suddenly found no purchase, and Legolas heard several of the dwarves’ shouts and curses as they too were caught on the collapsing ground.

Putting all his strength and weight into his arm, Legolas flung Galithil forward with all his might, sending her crashing through the bushes and tumbling head-over-heels onto the sturdier ground of the trail where the rest of the company had taken refuge. But the act of doing so slowed his own momentum forward, and Faron was too far behind him to reach in time for them to assist each other to safety. One of the dwarves managed to seize some scrubby bushes that did not seem to be falling into the hole with the rest of the ground, and Legolas and Faron desperately sought to do the same.

“No!” disregarding safety in a fashion that would have earned a younger warrior serious censure, Langcyll charged forward, rushing onto the unstable ground that was crumbling like stale way bread under his warriors’ feet. Two of the dwarves had already vanished into the rapidly-widening chasm, and another clung helplessly to the edge. Though his heart thought first of his own warriors, Langcyll nonetheless made a grab for the nearer dwarf, but the rock to which he clung gave way and he vanished into the hole before Langcyll could reach him.

Legolas flung himself forward and managed to grasp the very base of another deep-rooted bush, but from behind him he heard Faron’s cry of panic as his friend found no such deliverance. Frantically, he twisted back and tried to grab Faron’s hand, no longer seeing Langcyll on his knees upon the unstable ground, his own hand extended toward Legolas. Legolas’s hand found Faron’s, and for a few seconds it seemed that they were both saved as they hung over a black pit who-knew-how-deep. But their combined, swinging weight proved to be more than the small bush could bear, and Legolas looked up in horror as a low “riiiiippp” heralded the roots coming loose.

“Legolas!”

Glorfindel raced forward as he saw more ground giving way, and yanked Langcyll back from the edge of the hole even as two of their warriors were swallowed up by the earth. The last thing the rest of the company saw of Legolas was his hand, still clinging to the unfaithful bush, as it vanished in the cave-in. More rock and sand poured into the break in the earth, and Langcyll and Glorfindel stumbled to their feet, staring in horror as great boulders and slabs of rock filled in the hole just as quickly as it had formed.

The dwarf company had gathered alongside the elves, and they too stared in dismay at the seemingly impenetrable barrier between themselves and three of their own party. After what seemed like an eternity, the sand and stone ceased sliding, and the vibrations of cracking stone ended beneath the warriors’ feet.

If one looked upon both companies at that particular moment, it would be difficult indeed to determine which looked the most distressed. Immortal the elves may be, but mortal injuries can be just as deadly to them, and it was doubtful that even the swiftest and sturdiest elf could escape a landslide of sand and stone unscathed. Though the dwarves are skilled in navigating caves, three of their companions had been caught in that same catastrophic rockslide.

Now two elves and three dwarves were trapped beneath a massive pile of collapsed stone in a cavern of untold depth, along with untold numbers of orcs. It seemed impossible that either company, being so unfamiliar with this particular network of caves, would be able to reach their companions before the agents of the enemy found them first. Assuming, of course, that any of them had survived.

*****  



	12. Of Price and Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

“Legolas!”

The last thing the young warrior saw of the ground above was Glorfindel dragging Langcyll back as more earth gave way and crumpled into the chasm. Then Legolas was caught in what seemed like a great waterfall of sand and stone that tumbled down, down, over more rock, battering his body, and he groped blindly for some purchase that would stop his fall. Faron’s hand was pulled from his grasp suddenly, and he cried out in terror even as he plummeted on, until all at once, he came to a somersaulting halt against a hard bed of rock. More rock and sand poured around him, and he instinctively put his arms over his head and curled into a ball in a feeble effort to protect himself. After what seemed like an eternity, the brutal cascade ceased.

Trembling, motionless, Legolas attempted to catch his breath and only succeeded in inhaling a mouthful of sand and dust that still hovered in the air. Gasping and coughing, he covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve, desperate to filter out the choking debris. His eyes stung and watered so that he could scarcely see. He felt the clouds of dust settling around him, and attempted another shaky breath. It was still thoroughly unpleasant, but he no longer felt that he was drowning in dirt.

That minor detail attended to, Legolas focused his attention on the rest of his body. Tentatively, he uncurled himself and though his body throbbed deeply in many places, he did not think anything was broken. It seemed a miracle. He could taste blood in his mouth and his body was covered with scrapes and bruises, his clothing torn in many places, but all things considered, he was relatively unharmed. He raised a hand to brush the sand and grit from his still-smarting eyes and found that he was still clutching the roots of the plant he’d been trying to cling to, so tightly in fact that his fingers spasmed painfully when he forced them to let it go. There were deep scratches in his other hand, and though none of the wrist bones were broken, he felt that the joint had at least popped.

*When I lost Faron…he must have been trying to hold on as hard as I was.*

Faron. Legolas sat up slowly and looked around him, but the floating dust in the air was still too thick for him to see more than a few feet in any direction. It was also darker than any place he had ever been. He could feel hard stone behind him, and the dust obscured any view over his head, so there was no telling how high or wide this cave was that he and the others had tumbled into. He nearly called out, but caught himself--he had no idea how many orcs had landed in this chasm with them, and it would not be wise to call their attention to him while still trapped alone in this place.

Legolas decided it would be best to remain where he was for the time being, and tried to concentrate on listening. Unfortunately, his head felt as though there was a gong ringing inside it, and the sounds of settling dust and rock still obscured any sounds of other living things around him.

The dust continued to settle, but it was so dark…Legolas had not the faintest idea where he was, or how far below the surface of the earth the floor of this cavern was, where Faron was, what had happened to the dwarves--*I shall go mad if I cannot see anything!!* Shuddering convulsively, Legolas drew his knees up under his chin like a frightened child. Until he was able determine more of where he was and what had happened, he could do nothing but wait.

***

Galithil had staggered to her feet after being thrown to safety by Legolas, and now stood next to Elunen, her hands over her mouth in mute horror. Faintly, she whispered, “We must get them out of there.”

“How?” demanded Elladan, as his brother moved a few feet closer to inspect the cave-in and cursed softly. “Tons of rock were shifted by that fall. How are we to remove such a pile?”

Seeing movement from the corner of her eye, Galithil noticed the dwarves again, talking heatedly amongst themselves, doubtlessly worried about their own comrades. She turned and met Langcyll’s anguished eyes. Without a word to the other elves, the captain of Mirkwood turned and spoke, “Master Dwarf.” Naldin of the Lonely Mountain paused and looked at Langcyll, “It seems we have both a pressing need to free our companions. I believe the dwarves may be more knowledgeable than the elves at moving stone. Have you any idea how we might reach them?”

Naldin and Sothi exchanged glances with the other dwarves, and for once there was an expression other than scorn for the elves upon their faces. For both sides, anxiety dominated every other thought. After a moment’s wordless exchange, Naldin folded his arms and said briskly, “The work will go faster if we combine our efforts.”

Anxiously, Glorfindel moved up beside Langcyll, “Say only where you would have us help, and it shall be done.”

The dwarf nodded, “We have tools to break up the rocks. It’ll have to be done by hand; we don’t dare collapse any more stone or we risk hurting our friends. It may also be possible to find another entrance to these caves. We’ll need scouts, and strong arms to move stone.”

Without hesitation, Langcyll ordered, “Glorfindel, take Elunen, Fanfirith, and Glanaur and assist the dwarves with the scouting. Galithil, Elladan, Elrohir, Nathron, and I will remain to help with reopening the hole.”

“Good!” Sothi motioned to several of the dwarves, who gathered up ropes and packs, and carried their axes, and then jerked his head at the elf scouts to follow him as he jogged off down the hillside. “Watch for any openings in the earth. Even the smallest holes can be widened if you have the proper tools.”

Langcyll watched them go, and turned back to Naldin, who was directing the remaining dwarves. They were removing hammers, chisels, and other heavy tools from their packs and marching resolutely toward the filled-in hole. “Come,” Naldin said to the elves. “Time for you wood-elves to learn the art of breaking through rock!” Taking the large hammer he’d been offered, Langcyll followed Naldin.

***

**  
“Are you certain you know where we are, Tathar?”

“Positive! I have a perfect sense of direction! The treasure chambers must be the deepest ones so they are the hardest to get to!”

“Wonderful! So we have to stay down here even longer to get to this reported treasure!”

“If you’re scared, Candrochon, you can always go back up!”

“I’m not scared, Legolas!”

“Shh! Be quiet, you two!”

“Peace, Merilin, no one will hear us. There is no one down here at all…what was that?!”

“What? Where!?”

“I heard something!”

“Pfft, you’re mad, Legolas. I don’t see any--AIIIIII!!!! There’s something swooping down! Help! RUN!!!”

(Gasp! Pant!) “For pity’s sake, Candrochon, it was just a bat!”

“They say the bats that live in caves suck blood!”

“Will you stop it, Merilin!?”

“Aaah, where’s Tathar?”

“He was here a minute ago…I can’t see him! I can’t see anything! What’s happened?! Where’s the light?”

“Tathar! Where are you?! We’re lost! The torch has gone out!”

(Shiver) “Maybe--maybe we should just wait until someone comes and finds us.”

“Legolas?”

“What?”

“I’m hungry.”

**

A shuffle jerked Legolas back to the present--not that it was much of an improvement. The situation had not changed. He felt the blackness closing around him, and now he was certain there was someone--or something--nearby. The young elf’s heart was pounding so hard that he was certain whoever it was would find him easily. To make matters worse, he seemed to have lost both his quiver and his knives in the fall.

*I must not panic. I must wait and see if they reveal themselves. If it is Faron, he may call out to me. If it is an orc, I shall know very soon.* But it was all he could do not to breathe loudly as shuffles and movement provided indisputable proof that someone else had entered this earthen tomb with him.

Suddenly, there was an odd ching! and sparks flew. In a low hissss, Legolas saw a flame appear in the darkness several yards away, ignite the end of some object that looked like a tangle of roots, then with a soft sizzle, a torch head burned brightly, and…light! Gorgeous, blessed light filled the cavern, illuminating the face of a rather battered dwarf who gazed around the room and nearly dropped his torch when he spied Legolas.

Elf and dwarf stared at each other for a long moment. The dwarf found his voice first. “So. An elf survived that little rockslide, did he? I’d begun to think I was the only one left down here.”

Determined that his voice would NOT shake when he spoke, Legolas said quietly, “You’ve seen no sign of any others? Friend or foe?”

“Nay. Not a dwarf, elf, or orc to be seen in that passage,” the dwarf’s heavy features looked still more brooding and unfriendly in the dim, flickering torchlight. With a rather mean smile, he observed, “You look like you haven’t moved from the spot where you landed. What ails you, Elf--are all your kind so afraid of the dark?”

His pride stung awake, Legolas rose on reasonably steady legs so that he might look down upon this posturing little creature. “I had not a convenient torch to light my way, and I had concern enough for my comrades not to wish to step on them in the dark. You might face the same danger if I could not see where I was going.”

“Hmph.”

Sensing that he had gained the verbal upper hand, for the moment at least, Legolas changed the subject to the one of most concern. “Do you have any idea where our companions might have landed in this cave?”

“There’s more than one cave, Elfling. This entire hill is riddled with caverns, tunnels, and gaping holes. I’ve found at least one hole in the floor that goes so deep my first torch fell until it disappeared. You and I were lucky. Our friends may not have been.”

The dwarf seemed to feel little hope of finding his friends alive, but the thought of escaping this place without Faron was enough to shake Legolas to the core of his being. *I cannot go through this again I cannot go through this again I cannot go through this again I cannot--* Aloud, in a reasonably steady voice, he said, “I must find my friend, Master Dwarf. Help me if you wish, but I will tarry no longer. Have you another torch?”

“Nay, this is the last. Looks like we’re stuck with each other, but I’d like to know what happened to my friends as well, Elfling. Come, then. Let us take a look around.” Jerking his hand imperiously at Legolas, he began to explore the perimeter of the cavern. Legolas was irritated at first, then decided that this dwarf was a far more experienced navigator of caves than any elf. Biting his tongue, he followed closely.

***

“Now loop that rope over that edge of the rock nice and tight, Lady Elf,” one of the dwarves ordered Galithil. “Tighter now. If it slips off while we’re lifting it, it could trigger another cave-in.”

Pulling with all her strength, Galithil of Mirkwood tightened the double-loop she had made with the rope around an especially large slab of rock. The dwarves had sent the lighter elves to climb over the pile and remove all the small rocks they could easily carry, but now some large chunks had to be shifted.

“I think that is as tight as it will come,” Galithil told the dwarf, wiping sweat from her eyes and glancing about. Two of the elves and another of the dwarves were standing watch as the rest continued working, but the eastern sky was growing red, and soon there would be no chance of an orc ambush. Langcyll and Naldin had agreed that they would have perhaps this one day only to reach their companions before every orc in the Misty Mountains honed in on their position.

“All right! Make ready there! Stand well back, Lady. Don’t want you squished if that thing should fall,” the dwarf sounded almost charming as he took his position on the rope in front of Elrohir, Elladan, and two other dwarves. “Ready, ready, now!”

With great heaving and groaning, elves and dwarves pulled the rope with all their strength to haul away a slab of stone that must have weighed half a ton. The dwarves had rigged a strange frame on the north side of the hole where the ropes were slung so that the stone could be lifted into the air, then shifted safely away from the pile before being dropped onto solid ground. Langcyll was with another dwarf behind the frame, guiding the stone safely out of the way. “Lower it gently,” Naldin cautioned. With great care, the group holding the ropes lessened their grip and eased the great slab to the ground.

Galithil let out the breath she was holding, and the dwarf who had been directing them stomped his foot triumphantly. “And the first slab is safely away! That’s a good omen among my people, Lady Elf,” he said to her. “If the first stone comes away willingly, the mine will disgorge great treasure. Let’s just hope it’s the treasure dear to us all, eh?” He winked at her, and returned to the pile to pick out the next rock to be lifted.

Shaking herself out of the strange inertia that had seized her, she went to help him. “What is your name, Master Dwarf?” she asked as she helped him clear away loose stones.

“Sháin, Lady Elf, son of Tili, second cousin of Dáin, King under the Mountain. Forgot my manners in this rather nasty predicament. Should’ve asked your name.”

“I am Galithil, daughter of Eregdos of Mirkwood,” she told him.

“‘Galithil.’ ‘Galithil.’ Means ‘pale moon,’ doesn’t it?” Sháin paused and cocked his head at the warrioress with a smile. “Suits you, Lady. Bring those hammers back!” he suddenly shouted. “Got another rock here that needs breaking!”

***

A search of the perimeter of the cavern where Legolas had landed revealed neither a dwarf nor an elf, but several raggedy-edged passages leading out. The dwarf waved his torch at the ceiling. “No telling where the landslide has dumped our friends, but they’re not here. We’d better start searching the passages.”

Legolas quashed the urge to shudder. “Should we not be worried that there may be orcs about in these caves?”

“After that cave-in? Unlikely, Elfling. They’ll have run for their lives if they were down here when the roof started giving way. Nay, our best shot at finding our comrades is to hurry and search before the orcs do come back. Follow me,” the dwarf lowered his torch in front of him to illuminate the passage as they entered. Legolas had no choice but to follow him.

**

“I canNOT believe you dropped the torch, Candrochon!”

“It was not my fault, Merilin! With all your talk of bloodsucking monsters and such, I would say it is yours!”

“Bah! You cannot blame me for everything, you little coward! You would have run from your own shadow--”

“SHHH! I am trying to listen! Tathar may be hurt somewhere and all you two can do is quarrel!”

“You cannot see any better than the rest of us in this dark, Legolas!”

“Nay, but I could hear if you would keep quiet!”

(Whimper!) “Do you suppose the bat got him?”

“Shh!”

“I still say this is all Merilin’s fault. Ow!”

**

Ahead of Legolas, the dwarf suddenly stopped. Legolas had to catch himself to avoid bumping into him. Without speaking, the dwarf knelt down, and Legolas saw a form lying prone in the dust too small to be Faron. “Take the torch,” the dwarf muttered, handing it to Legolas. He shook his companion tentatively. “Therik? Come on, Therik, wake up!”

The other dwarf groaned and stirred, then suddenly jerked upright with a grunt of challenge, balling his fists as he moved to fend off any attackers. Legolas jumped backward, and the other dwarf neatly fended off a wild swing. “Lorben? Is that you?”

“Aye, my friend, and glad to see you in one piece! I was afraid this elfling was the only other one to survive,” the first dwarf said.

Therik looked past Lorben and took in the rather ragged elf warrior holding the torch. “Hmph. Don’t know how that scrawny one could slip off a rock without breaking half the bones in his body.”

Legolas pursed his lips and said nothing. It was uncertain how long he would be trapped down here with these dwarves, and he still needed their help finding Faron. And the dwarves were still missing another one of their fellows. He was about to ask Therik if he had seen any sign of the others when noises from further down the passage caused them all to freeze. Lorben had somehow managed to keep ahold of his axe through everything, and brought it swiftly to bear as the trio gazed into the darkness beyond the torchlight.

To Legolas’s keen ears, the faint shuffles soon evolved into the sound of carefully-placed feet--too light to be either a dwarf or an orc. “Hold!” he said aloud as an intense surge of relief made him giddy. He held out a hand to restrain Lorben. “Faron?”

“Legolas?!” came an equally-relieved cry from down the passage, and the stealthy steps quickened into a limping run. Moments later, Faron of Imladris, looking bedraggled and bruised but none the worse for wear, hurried into view. The other young warrior paused on seeing the dwarves, then nodded briskly to them and went to grip Legolas’s arms.

*If these dwarves were not here, I think I should throw my arms around him,* Legolas thought, his stomach still churning with relief. “Faron, you are unharmed?” he asked aloud.

“A few bumps and scrapes, but nothing serious,” Faron took a step back and looked his friend over. “You seem to have fared all right.”

Legolas nodded wearily, then decided it was time to address the less pleasant subject. “As far as we can tell, you and I were the only ones of our party to be caught in the fall, but the dwarves are still searching for one of their companions.”

“Then, of course, we shall aid them,” Faron added blandly, but Legolas could detect a note of mirth in his voice. Turning to face the dwarves, Faron said graciously, “Well met, Master Dwarves. I am Faron of Imladris.”

Exchanging a quick glance, the dwarves evidently decided there could be no lasting harm in revealing their names. “Lorben and Therik of the Lonely Mountain.”

“Legolas of Mirkwood,” Legolas added, praying they would not be knowledgeable of the elves of Mirkwood.

Apparently, he was in luck, for the dwarves merely grunted and looked like they wanted to continue on their way. Briskly, Faron said, “Shall we continue searching for your comrade?” He received no verbal answer, but Lorben lowered his torch before him and continued into the passage.

Faron and Legolas followed him, remaining silent but relieved no end that neither of them had suffered no grievous hurt. Legolas hoped that the third missing dwarf had been as lucky, but it was more due to a desire that the dwarves not be in an ill mood as they dug their way out than any particular concern for them. Legolas had acknowledged these ill thoughts, but felt little guilt for them; he was tired, his body still throbbed (particularly his head), and above all else, he sincerely doubted that the other two dwarves had felt the slightest concern when his friend had been also missing.

***

“This won’t get us anywhere, Master Elf,” Sothi the dwarf told Glorfindel. “See how the sound echoes from the passage? It bends south, and we need a path under the ground bending north if we want to go even in the general direction of our missing comrades.”

Glorfindel could hear the distorted echoes of the dwarf’s words being thrown back at them from the blackness of the cave they had entered a little ways, but failed to detect anything that might indicate the direction of the passage. Seeing the dwarf’s knowing grin in the torchlight, Glorfindel smiled ruefully and admitted, “I fear I shall have to take you at your word, Sothi, son of Dwalin, for I cannot tell the difference.”

“Ah, patience, Lord Glorfindel, you’re a more willing caver than some of your friends there. Eh, Mirkwood?” Sothi grinned past Glorfindel at the four elves of Langcyll’s party, who had hung very close to the entrance and seemed decidedly reluctant to venture deeper into the cave to explore.

With a sheepish smile, Elunen folded her arms and said, “I speak for us all, Master Sothi, when I say we should be more than happy to dig halfway under this mountain if you had said we stood a chance of finding our companions. But when you did not,” she raised her hands to indicate the futility of such an unpleasant exercise.

Sothi grinned at her again, and Glorfindel found himself fighting the urge to grin as well. Being of Imladris, Glorfindel encountered dwarves on a fairly regular basis, but even a Mirkwood elf as far-traveled as Elunen had seen considerably less of them. Consequently, he could sense her surprise at the discovery that dwarves were rather witty (not to mention that they were surprisingly accomplished flirts.) “I may not be as uneasy as my Mirkwood kin inside caves, but if we’ve nothing to gain from further exploration of this one, I would venture to suggest that we move on. For the lives of all our friends may depend upon our speed.”

“Come, then,” Sothi said briskly, and Glorfindel followed him from the tunnel beside Elunen.

“I’ve seem my share of dwarves in my lifetime,” the Mirkwood warrioress murmured to Glorfindel, “but I must confess that I had forgotten how charming they could be.”

“He’s too young for you, Elunen,” Glanaur whispered to her, earning a glare in return. Just ahead of them, one of the other dwarves was muttering something to Sothi about being “besotted with pretty elf-ladies,” and got a jab in the ribs for his wit.

Glorfindel thought to himself, *Now all we need is to find Legolas, Faron, and the three missing dwarves alive and unharmed, and much will have been accomplished on this leg of the trip.*

***

“Ho, who goes there?” shouted a voice from down the black passage ahead of the trapped elves and dwarves.

With a startled curse, Lorben jumped backward, nearly dropping his torch, and Faron muttered to Legolas, “So much for a discreet search. At least it was worth the noise now that we’ve found our last missing dwarf.”

Sure enough, Therik the dwarf bellowed down the passage in response, throwing echoes that made the two elf warriors wince, “That you, Broni? Here! Hello!”

Moments later, Faron and Legolas heard the sound of heavy-running feet, and the third dwarf thumped into the torchlight, hurrying to greet his companions without so much as a blink at the two elves behind them. “Lorben! Therik! I was afraid you’d both been crushed by the rockslide. There were two dead orcs next to me when I came round.”

“But no live ones, that’s the important thing, eh?” Lorben said cheerfully, slapping the new arrival on the back. “We were beginning to despair of you, Broni. Glad you made it. Would’ve been a disgrace if we’d lost one of ours when both the elves survived.”

“Both?” For the first time, Broni and the other two saw fit to acknowledge Legolas and Faron’s presence again. “Hmph. I remembered a couple of elves being with us when we got caught.” He looked the two elves up and down, evidently deciding that their presence should be dealt with civilly, if nothing else. “So, Master Elves, I trust you’re enjoying your little sojourn in the dwarven realms?”

Faron had sensed long ago that Legolas’s temper was running a bit short, which was very unlike him (or perhaps he was concealing a painful injury, which would all too like him). So he responded quickly, “I think we are finding it most instructive, Master Dwarf. If our companions above are faring as well in the caves as we, soon the dwarves will be able to call on the elves whenever you are in need of our assistance.” At his elbow, he felt Legolas twitch ever-so-slightly as the prince suppressed a snicker.

The dwarf grunted (as dwarves are wont to do) and said grudgingly, “Well, you’ve survived this far, so I suppose it is a start. I am Broni, son of Fildin of the Lonely Mountain.”

“A pleasure, I am sure, Broni son of Fildin,” Faron said with a graceful bow, and decided he was rather enjoying this. “I am Faron, son of Gwaeron of Imladris.”

The newcomer grunted at him again, and was already looking to his companions when Legolas added as an afterthought, “Legolas--of Mirkwood.”

Broni paused. Faron was puzzled for only a moment when he felt Legolas stiffen beside him, then began to curse himself. *Curse me to wander in these caves for a week, why did I have to name my lineage?! I should have realized how they would react to hearing the name of Legolas’s father! Please do not let him notice, please do not let him notice--*

Their luck had run out. Lorben and Therik had ignored the elves’ failure to name their lineage when they’d introduced themselves before, but Broni had caught it. And, worse yet, he slowly turned and fixed Legolas with a stare that seemed to bore right through the younger elf. “Legolas, hmm? Of Mirkwood?” Faron felt Legolas stop breathing next to him, and looked desperately for a way to change the subject, distract Broni, anything.

But nothing came to mind, and Broni the dwarf was apparently more knowledgeable of the elves of Mirkwood than his friends--specifically when it came to the Mirkwood nobility. As Lorben and Therik also turned to stare at Legolas, Broni drawled, “And who might your father be, Legolas of Mirkwood?”

To his credit, Legolas lifted his chin and returned the dwarf’s piercing stare with an equally steady gaze. “My father is Thranduil of Mirkwood.”

Therik’s jaw dropped, and Lorben spat out a dwarvish curse that Faron understood (and knew Legolas did, for he spoke many languages of races he’d yet to meet.) Broni grinned nastily and said, “Hah! I knew it! Thought I’d seen you somewhere before, but not the same. Now I see what threw me off. You have your elven king’s eyes, Prince of Mirkwood.” It did not take elven perception to see that he intended to suggest that Legolas might have picked up other traits from his father.

*This has gone far enough,* Faron thought furiously, determined to deflect a barrage of dwarf grievances from descending on his friend’s shoulders. He said quickly, “While I’m sure our respective family lines will make a fascinating topic of discussion, I suggest we save it until we have escaped this cave and returned to our comrades. After that landslide, they are doubtlessly wondering what became of us. And we will have a difficult time if the torch should burn out.”

To his intense relief, and that of Legolas, the dwarves decided to postpone their tirade against King Thranduil and resumed their search for a plausible way out of the cave. In the flickering torchlight, Legolas shot Faron a grateful glance, his hand fingering the pouch that contained Tathar’s pearl.

**  
(Gasp!) “Who’s there?!”

“What?”

“I heard something!”

“Stop it, Legolas, you’re just trying to scare us.” (Sniffle!)

“No, Merilin, I did hear something. Someone’s coming!”

“I don’t hear anything--wait! It’s a footstep!”

“See, Candrochon hears it too--it’s an elf! HELLO!! HELLO, we’re down here!!!”

“Shhh! Legolas, what if it isn’t, what if it’s something else--”

“I don’t care, I want to get out of these dungeons before we starve or die or something else comes and eats us--HELLOOOOO!! Can you hear me!?”

“Who is down here?”

“Berensul?! Berensul, it’s me, it’s Legolas! Help! We’re lost!”

“Calm down, Legolas, we are coming. Ah, there you are--oomph! It’s all right, you are safe now. Let go of my legs and we will have you out of here.”

(Whimper!) “We-lost-Tathar-and-we-can’t-find-him!”

“Stop crying, it is all right. Tathar cannot be far from you, and there are other searchers looking. Peace, all three of you, we will find Tathar.”

“What if the bat got him?!”

“Was it a very big bat, Merilin?”

“Well, no…”

“It would be a very big bat indeed that would be able to carry off even an elf as small as Tathar. Now, let us be off and we will have you out of these caves in no time--whatever possessed you to come down here?”

“Tathar said there was treasure!”

“Do not believe everything your friends say, Candrochon.” (Sigh.) “There are enough elves besotted with treasure without adding any more from this generation. Spend your time on other pursuits. Come, let us return to the land of the living.”

**

Langcyll was helping to lower yet another boulder away from the cave-in site when he spotted Glorfindel and Sothi, along with the rest of the scouts, returning from their latest search of the mountainside. “Anything?” he asked when the stone was safely set down.

“Nay, Master Elf,” Sothi replied, looking discouraged. “What caves we did find show no signs of being connected to this one. We can look further if you like, but I don’t see much sign in the rocks that there’ll be any other entrances to that cursed cavern except the one that our unlucky friends found.”

Langcyll turned away to hide his anxiety and growing despair. The pile of great rocks and fallen dirt seemed to have no end, even as they pulled away boulder after boulder. What if the air supply into the cave below had been cut off? What if Legolas or Faron or one of the elves had been seriously wounded and lay in need of aid even as his company struggled to shift the pile above?

He spotted Galithil, standing upon yet another boulder that she was tying the ropes around, under the direction of Sháin the dwarf. She paused from her work when she noticed his gaze, raising questioning eyebrows. “How goes our progress, Galithil?” Langcyll called to her.

Instead of answering, Galithil turned to Sháin, who told Langcyll, “I know it seems an eternity, Captain Langcyll, but we’re doing well. The big blocks always wind up on top in a cave-in such as this, and soon we may find an open hole underneath that’ll lead down to our friends. Already, we’re running into more sand than stone, didn’t you notice?”

Looking down at the heap, Langcyll realized Sháin was right. The dwarf grinned, “Come, Captain of Mirkwood, it’s not time to despair yet. And with your help, the work will go faster still. Lend your Lady Galithil a hand so we can get that great stone log out of our way.”

Had Langcyll not been so anxious for the fate of the missing ones, he would have been amused by the grin that Sháin gave Galithil--and rather startled by the fact that she seemed to have fallen into the habit of grinning back. But he did take note as he joined them of how well the dwarf miner and the elf warrioress were working together.

***

“Keep quiet, Therik! You stomp so we wouldn’t hear an orc until we rounded a bend and walked right into him!” Lorben hissed, waving his torch at his ungainly companion.

“Psst, have a care with that torch! If it goes out, we’re done for!”

“Hold your tongue, Broni!”

Legolas and Faron exchanged exasperated glances. Legolas in particular was beginning to think he would not be able to stand another moment of these wearisome creatures’ company. Having no better method of navigating, the two elves followed closely behind the dwarves, attempting to listen over the dwarves’ racket for orcs or any other danger that might be lurking in the depths of the earth.

What seemed like several leagues ago, Legolas had pulled Tathar’s pearl from his pouch and was surreptitiously rolling it in his hand, and he began to think that the obscure comfort he felt in its smooth surface was the only thing that had prevented him from trouncing all three of the dwarves.

Ahead of them, Broni suddenly stopped and the elves caught themselves to avoid running into him. “Wonderful. This is a nice fix you’ve got us in, Lorben. Did you have any idea where you were going?”

“What?” Lorben held up the torch, its light bouncing off a solid wall of stone in their path.

Legolas could not restrain a sigh, “Another dead end.”

“Pipe down, elfling prince, we can see that for ourselves?” Lorben snapped.

“Now what?” Therik grunted.

“What do you think? Back the way we came?” Lorben said with a wave of his hand, turning and brushing past the elves. “There were other passages down here. We’ll find a way out.”

As the dwarves started back the way they had come, Legolas folded his arms and said coldly, “Perhaps we should return to the cavern where we first fell. Our comrades may be searching for us.”

The dwarves paused, gazing back at him, and exchanged a glance among themselves long enough to tell Legolas that his suggestion had merit. However, the dwarves had no intention of admitting it. “What makes you think they have not left us all for dead, prince?” demanded Broni.

Faron fired back before Legolas could, “I am sorry if your companions value your lives so little, but I can tell you that our company would not give us up, Master Dwarf, and certainly would not break off a search after less than a day. Perhaps they are working together?”

Legolas saw the dwarves’ astonished expressions at the idea, and indeed, found it hard to stifle an incredulous laugh himself. “In any case, their likely course of action would be to try to break through the caved-in earth that first opened,” he added, pressing the advantage. “So we would be well-advised to return from whence we came and see if they have had any success. This way, we shall be near enough to hear if they call to us.”

The dwarves paused, staring at each other, and Legolas doubted they would concede to the wisdom of his suggestion. So, rather than allow them time to invent some asinine alternative, he pushed past them, plucked the torch briskly from Lorben’s hand--ignoring the dwarf’s startled grunt--and led the way back down the passage. He might not be used to navigating caves, but an elf’s memory allowed him to follow the path back in the direction they had come.

***

“So, Moon Maiden, these two missing elves. Friends of yours?” Sháin the dwarf asked Galithil.

As she continued clearing loose stones from the latest layer of debris they had uncovered--with no end in sight--Galithil nodded soberly. “We have all come to know each other well in the time we’ve traveled together. Faron is Glorfindel’s youngest warrior, and Legolas is the youngest of Mirkwood’s company. I have known them both since they were children.”

Sháin had stopped working, and stared at her. “What’s that? The name of your fellow Mirkwood elf?”

“Le--” Galithil’s memory caught up with her, and she wanted to groan. But there it was, and there was little point in trying to evade Sháin’s question now. “His name is Legolas.”

Several of the other dwarves paused for a moment, and Galithil saw nothing but disgust on the faces of all. Naldin gestured imperiously for them to continue, but looked disdainfully at Langcyll. Resuming his work, Sháin for the first time wore a displeased expression. “Legolas, eh? Thranduil’s son?”

Galithil nodded, lifting her chin proudly in response to the contempt she heard in Sháin’s voice. “Legolas is a fine warrior, Master Dwarf. He has only just come of age, but he is courageous and steadfast beyond his years. If you do not know him, I would advise you not to hasten to judgment.”

“Hmph, wise words, as I reckon one should expect such from an elf. But whether you claim to know him yourself or not, Lady Elf, I’ve seen the darker side of your friend’s father. Many of my kin died in that battle over the Lonely Mountain,” Sháin told her grimly. Grunts of agreement from about them told Galithil that the other dwarves were now paying close attention to the conversation.

“I do not claim to know the king of my realm well, Master Dwarf,” Galithil said, straightening from her work and casting a quick gaze around her. “But I can tell you that a son is never a perfect copy of the father, and should not be judged by the father’s deeds, whatever you may think of them. Legolas deserves not your censure when you’ve yet to know him. And now perhaps we should speed our work, so you may know him sooner.”

With another--but rather thoughtful--grunt, Sháin returned to his digging. All at once, the rock he was breaking up with his pickaxe slipped and a large chunk of it fell into a suddenly-opened hole. “Ho! What have we here! Look there, Moon Maiden, we’ve found the hole again! Come look!” Sháin gestured to the gap in the ground, and the other elves and dwarves ceased digging and came to investigate.

Turning to Naldin, Langcyll asked, “Now what? We must take care not to knock any stones in upon our companions if they’re still down there.”

“Quite right, Master Elf. Let us try the simplest method first,” briskly, Naldin bent over the hole, cupped his hands over his mouth and bellowed, “HELLLOOOO!!! ANYONE DOWN THERE?!”

There was a long pause. “Let us continue then,” Glorfindel said, quashing a grin at the startled Mirkwood elves (they really knew so little of how amusing dwarves could be!) “Have a care not to knock too much debris down the hole, but the sooner we open it, the sooner we shall be able to mount another search.”

“Come then, everyone!” Sháin shouted, brandishing his pickaxe, “To work!”

***

“How do we know this idiot elfling hasn’t got us lost!”

Gritting his teeth, Legolas strode ahead of the dwarves and Faron, keeping his eyes on the ground and the tracks of their own feet as they headed back towards the cavern where he had landed. He did not respond to the dwarves, but Faron hurried to catch up with him and caught his arm, forcing him to slow. “Hold, Legolas,” he said very quietly. “We must not be separated.”

Legolas shot him a withering look, letting Faron know all too well how dearly he would love to be separated from these rude, blustering creatures, but waited for them to catch up. Glowering at them, Legolas said coldly, “I know the way we came,” and started walked again.

“Well, at least the elf prince can follow tracks,” (snicker) “guess that’s something.” Legolas gritted his teeth again. He was counting the seconds until he could be rid of them.

Ahead, the elves ducked under a low section of the cave ceiling, and crawled out into the cavern where Legolas had first found himself and Lorben the dwarf after the cave-in. All but slapping the torch back into Lorben’s hand, Legolas walked around the cavern, staring at the ceiling. “This must be it. See, there in the far end, the rocks are broken. That is where the landslide dropped us.” *Must it always be landslides? Why can I never be trapped by something like…a fallen tree? Or even a flood? I grow very tired of being buried.*

He fingered Tathar’s pearl in its pouch as Faron walked out ahead of him to examine the ceiling, attempting to crawl up. “Perhaps we may find a way to dislodge some of the rock. If our companies are trying to dig our way to us, this might aid them.” Faron prodded some of the obstructing stones, lodged in the high hole.

“Be careful, Far--” Legolas raised a warning hand, but suddenly, with a grinding noise, the rocks Faron had disturbed came loose and tumbled down.

“Get back!” Broni jerked Lorben and Therik to the opposite end of the cavern, but Legolas dropped the pouch and charged forward as he saw Faron tumble to the ground.

“Faron! Move!” Legolas cried, but his friend, stunned by the fall, had only time to roll onto his back as the whole section of the ceiling seemed to give way. “No--NO!” A great block of stone tumbled down, among rocks of all sizes, and crashed down directly on top of Faron. “FARON!!!” Legolas stumbled backward to avoid being buried, and a great cloud of dust obscured his view. “Faron, answer me!”

There was silence, filled only by a growing scream in the elf’s mind. *No! I cannot go through this again! No! NO!! I cannot lose Faron too! Please! NOT AGAIN!!!*

Then, like a flame to one freezing to death, a voice came from the darkness. “I…Legolas?”

“Faron?!” Legolas charged forward, kneeling to see that the rock slab had come to rest leaning against the wall, keeping Faron from being instantly killed. “Thank the Valar! Hold on!”

“Ai…” Faron’s head and torso were just visible, and one arm was free. But then Legolas saw the danger. That part of the wall had begun to crumble, and Faron was slowly being crushed. “Legolas--I can barely breath.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Legolas chanted, desperately trying to brace the rock enough for Faron to get out. Movement behind him reminded him that they were not alone. Glancing over his shoulder as he struggled to wedge his shoulder beneath the slab, he cried to the dwarves, “Why do you just stand there?! Help me free him!”

Broni folded his arms and scowled, “Many of our friends died in the battle instigated by your father, elfling. Now maybe you know how it feels!”

Groaning with the effort of bracing the rock, Legolas stared in astonishment at the dwarves. He had managed to slow its collapse with his own body, but if he went down, he and Faron would probably both be killed. “He--aii--he is of Imladris--rrgh--you vindictive troll! Faron had nothing…to do with the battle! Help him!”

Lorben had a rather odd--and rather nasty--expression on his face, as he reached into the small leather pouch he’d picked up off the ground and pulled out a large black pearl. Looking at the panicked elven prince, and his trapped friend, he drawled, “You’re the son of a greedy king, elfling. So tell me, is his life worth the price of your little pearl?”

It was utter shock more than anything that made Legolas hesitate, and he stared open-mouthed at the dwarf even as the weight of the stone continued to crush his shoulder. The malevolence of this creature seemed utterly without bounds. But as to the question itself, Legolas needed no great thought to answer. “Take it, then. Help me get him out.”  
  
With a sickening smirk, the three dwarves quickly joined Legolas, two helping brace the stone and raise it to where Therik could pull Faron free. The minute his friend was clear, the two dwarves released the stone, and just as Legolas jerked out from beneath it, it collapsed, scoring a deep, bruised scrape in the young elf’s shoulder beneath his tunic.

Legolas scrambled to Faron’s side, and found him already attempting to sit up. “Leave off, Legolas, I am all right. Just a little bruised.”

The black pearl, Tathar’s black pearl, was sitting in the dirt on the floor of the cave where Lorben had left it. Legolas picked it up, brushing the dirt away, and stared at it.

**

“Tathar! Tathar! Where have you been?!”

“I might ask the same of you, Legolas!”

“We were lost in the dungeons, and it was dark and damp and awful and cold and terrible and there were bloodsucking bats and then we lost the torch! And then we got scared!”

“I was lost in the dungeons too, but I was all by myself! I was more scared than you!”

“So…that’s all? You were just in the dungeons like we were?”

“Yes, Merilin, and I was afraid too!”

“So…none of us found the treasure rooms.”

(Sigh) “No, it would seem not.”

“Tathar?”

“What?”

“Are you sure you found nothing?”

“Of course! What, Legolas, would I lie to you?”

**

In the flicker of the torchlight, Legolas raised his eyes and met Lorben’s mockingly expectant gaze. Faron was looking at him as well. His friend sat up and put a hand on his friend’s arm. In a very soft voice, he said, “Tathar would not begrudge such a thing for your life, Legolas, you know that. It’s only a pearl.”

Lorben swaggered forward and held out his hand, and glaring coldly at him, Legolas dropped the pearl into the dwarf’s hand. “Ah, now here’s a pretty thing! So rare, pearls of such color!” Beside Legolas, Faron winced at the words as the other two dwarves turned to examine Lorben’s prize. “Such a pearl must command a very high price, eh, Prince?”

In a voice that would chill the seat of Sauron, Legolas said, “You know nothing of its worth, Dwarf.”

The dwarves laughed, apparently convinced that they had gotten the better of the prince, and just as Legolas’s temper appeared about to snap, a rattle from above made them all freeze. The elves and dwarves looked up as more rocks tumbled from the hole in the ceiling, which was beginning to widen. All at once, another large rock came down, and light came in a great beautiful stream into the chamber. “Hellooooo, down there! Anyone hear me?!”

“Naldin! Naldin! Ho, dwarves! We are here!” Therik, Lorben, and Broni rushed to the other side and stood beneath the hole, waving and shouting.

Another voice came down, fairer than the gruff dwarves voice and filled with anxiety, “Legolas? Faron? Are you there?”

“Langcyll!” Legolas cried, leaping to his feet, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. Faron was but a step behind him as they scrambled to the far wall beside the dwarves. “Langcyll, we are here! We are unharmed!”

From above, they heard another dwarves voice cry out, “They are there! They are all safe!” and a great cheer went up on the surface, of dwarven and elven voices alike.

“Hold just a moment longer, my friends, and we shall have you out,” Glorfindel’s voice called down to them, and moments later, several ropes were lowered down to the trapped dwarves and elves. “Careful, now. The rocks are still unstable.”

***

Langcyll was practically fidgeting as the three dwarves came up first from that earthen tomb, to be greeted by shouts and embraces from their kindred. A moment later, the rope went taut again, and Faron emerged, looking bruised, scraped, and ragged, but none the worse for wear. Elladan and Elrohir hustled him swiftly away for a closer examination, and Langcyll turned back in time to see a slender hand emerge from the blackness as the last occupant pulled himself from the cave.

“Legolas?” the captain of Mirkwood caught his youngest warrior’s hand and pulled him swiftly out of the hole. The effort overbalanced them both, and Langcyll had to catch Legolas in his arms to prevent the prince from being thrown to the ground. Perhaps only Glorfindel noticed that Langcyll’s grasp lasted longer than was necessary.

Pulling back and straightening distractedly, Legolas made a feeble attempt to dust himself off, “I am all right, sir. Neither Faron nor I were seriously hurt.”

Nodding briskly, Langcyll said, “I am greatly relieved for that, that all of you managed to escape injury.” His thoughts now under control, the captain critically looked the young elf over. Frowning, he noted the dark circles under the warrior’s eyes, and the rather translucent pallor of his skin. It had been less than twenty-four hours since the cave-in, but both Legolas and Faron appeared haggard and exhausted. *Ai, caves. Fearsome places. I had forgotten how being trapped underground would affect them. Much more time and it would have sickened both of them.*

Standing a few paces back, Langcyll told Legolas, “There is a stream not far down the hill. I suggest you clean up while there is still light left in the sky.”

“Yes, sir.” Legolas walked past him down the hill, but was nearly knocked off balance by a wild embrace from Galithil.

Langcyll could not hear the words spoken due to the clamor of the excited dwarves, but it was simple enough to translate the pantomime that passed between the two elves. Galithil was describing to Legolas how they had removed the stones with the dwarves’ help, and Legolas, though weary and battered, appeared interested until she gestured to one dwarf in particular. Then Legolas’s bright eyes darkened and he walked swiftly away toward the stream. Startled, Galithil went after him, apparently protesting something he had said. But Legolas was in no mood to debate whatever the issue was, and spoke rather brusquely to her before leaving her behind. She returned to join the others looking puzzled and troubled.

*So, it would seem Legolas did not profit from his prolonged encounter with the dwarves. Strange. I had thought being forced into such close quarters might change his mind,* Langcyll thought. *I wonder…* The warrior looked in the direction of the three formerly-trapped dwarves, who were still surrounded by their kindred, apparently telling stories of their various adventures during this episode.

One of the trapped dwarves, Lorben, was now speaking, and the others were listening with great interest. Then he said something that he apparently thought they would find amusing, and pulled a small pouch from his pocket. Langcyll did not see what was in it, but the other dwarves’ laughter suddenly ceased. The three trapped ones, Lorben, Broni, and Therik, were greatly startled to find themselves suddenly the target of accusing stares from all their company. Naldin asked a demanding question, and a very-baffled Lorben responded, only to find himself receiving a furious tirade from Sháin. Great gestures of outrage and defensiveness erupted from the company and the three trapped ones, respectively, and it seemed at first that Naldin intended to confiscate whatever it was Lorben had. But Lorben would not hear of it, and with a great gesture of utter disgust, Sháin stalked away, followed closely by Naldin, Sothi, and most of the other dwarves.

“Hmm, it seems this confinement served neither party well.” Langcyll jumped at the sound of Glorfindel’s voice just behind him.

Catching his breath, Langcyll replied, “Indeed. I wonder what transpired down there.”

“I do not…know,” Glorfindel frowned thoughtfully, as Legolas returned from the stream, wearing fresh clothes and looking calmer than before. As the two captains watched with great curiosity, Naldin the dwarf picked up Legolas’s bow and quiver, which the dwarves had found while digging, and carried them over to the prince, placing them at his feet with a deep bow. Looking startled, Legolas said something that was most likely a confused thanks, and Naldin returned to his own party looking apologetic.

Langcyll frowned in turn. Galithil was now speaking anxiously to Faron, who was being examined by Elladan and Elrohir, but they had paused on seeing what occurred between Legolas and Naldin the dwarf. Faron had appeared equally dismissive of whatever praise Galithil was offering the dwarves, but now he at least looked thoughtful, while Legolas wore a closed expression once again.

“Perhaps I should ask Legolas what happened,” Langcyll murmured thoughtfully.

He started forward, but Glorfindel suddenly spoke. “Langcyll.” He waited until the Mirkwood captain turned to face him, then walked forward to stand face-to-face with him. “One day you shall all have to return to Mirkwood. Forget not who Legolas is.”

The quiet words struck Langcyll like another avalanche. Finding his voice, he replied, “I’m sure I do not know what you mean.”

Glorfindel’s face was sympathetic; he too had been a captain and novice master for many centuries, and had trained up and led many young warriors. “Langcyll, Legolas is a prince of Mirkwood. He is Thranduil’s son.” Lowering his voice still more, he added, “Not yours.”

Langcyll stiffened sharply, then turned and walked swiftly away, his face betraying little emotion. Glorfindel watched him go, feeling a twinge of pity. He sighed quietly to himself, *Nay, I did not think you would listen to me, my friend. Not that I was ever inclined to listen to such advice when it concerned my own warriors. I might have spared myself great pain if I had listened to Elrond. I pray you will be spared that lesson, Langcyll, and never know the sorrow I felt of losing the one I thought of as my son. Such grief I had never felt, but I had no choice but to overcome it, for Faron’s sake, and my other warriors. May you never know such anguish for Legolas…as I felt for Gaerongil.*

***

Legolas was seated alone on a rock above the creek, feeling the warm rays of the sun on his face, and relishing them as never before after the nasty experience of the cave. He heard someone coming up behind him and saw Langcyll. “I am well,” he said immediately, half-joking at Langcyll’s nearly-constant concern for his well-being.

His captain smiled slightly and sat down beside him. “Well, yes, I am relieved no end to see. But you are troubled.”

Legolas looked away. “It is nothing important.”

Debating whether to bring the subject up, Langcyll decided to come straight out with it. “Lorben the dwarf and his friends Broni and Therik have fallen into great disfavor with their comrades. What passed between you down there?”

With a wry laugh, Legolas replied, “Disfavor? I am surprised the dwarves are not all gloating.”

“Legolas, without their help we would never have reached you,” Langcyll said sternly.

Legolas shook his head bitterly, “They would not have helped you had Faron and I been the only ones trapped. I still think them greedy and unfeeling. More than ever, not that I would sorrow greatly for the loss of any trinket.”

“The loss--” Langcyll blinked, then comprehension filled his eyes, along with sympathy. “So that was what Naldin was ranting about Lorben placing a price upon a life.”

Feeling his throat tighten, Legolas muttered, “It was only a pearl. Faron’s life was worth that and more. And he was right, Tathar…” Legolas swallowed hard, “Tathar would not begrudge it, though it does rankle me to think of anything belonging to him in a dwarf’s greedy hand.”

He felt Langcyll’s hand upon his shoulder but dared not look up. It frustrated Legolas to have so little control over himself at the thought of Tathar. Fortunately, Langcyll changed the subject. “Faron took some great bruising on his chest in the cave-in. Glorfindel had feared he might have fractured a rib, but it was not so serious. I am glad to see you safe, Legolas.” The captain rose, “But your comrades are anxious for you to rejoin them. We were all concerned for you and Faron. Come, let us return.”

Legolas quickly rose, forcing himself to dismiss the bitter thoughts that had been clouding his mind. There was no point in brooding over a lost bauble. *That is the sort of thing my father would do. The pearl was Tathar’s, but I have lost nothing of him. I should laugh. Those dwarves see only its price in terms of gold. I valued it far more than that, but that worth they shall never know, and never know what it is they have. May greed never have power over me.*

Aloud, he asked Langcyll, “How soon will we get under way?”

“At nightfall. And I am sorry if you view this with displeasure, but the dwarves will travel on the same path as us until we turn east for Lórien.” Langcyll shot him a quick, sharp look, and Legolas managed to keep a politely straight face. The captain’s mouth twitched in amusement, and they returned to the camp the elves and dwarves had set up.

***

“How can you impugn my honor, Naldin? I am grossly insulted!” Lorben growled, his hands on his hips.

Equally angry, Naldin, the leader of the dwarf company, glared at his comrade. “You have disgraced us, Lorben. Dwarves mine and work the gifts of the earth, we do not extort them over the threat of another’s life! You have lowered yourself to the very level of that elven king!”

“Have you forgotten that upstart elfling is the elven king’s son? Why should he matter to us?” Lorben demanded.

The other dwarves were seated about them, watching tensely. The dwarf company had moved a ways back down the trail so they could settle this matter out of earshot of the elves. Naldin replied, “I do not care if he had been the elven king himself. The honor of a dwarf is universal. I’ve half a mind to order you into their camp to apologize and return that pearl to its rightful owner.”

“Rightful--bah! Order me what you will, son of Oín, but I’ll see myself in Mordor before I apologize to that prince, OR give him anything save a good swing from my axe!” Lorben folded his arms obstinately.

Turning away with a curse, Naldin was clearly debating what to do as the other dwarves watched. It was a dilemma. He could try and force Lorben to obey him, but it would cause a dispute that would be difficult to explain when they returned to Lonely Mountain, and Naldin doubted if the dwarves there would understand the circumstances here. After all, Daín and all his folk had had enough dealings with King Thranduil that they were unlikely to be sympathetic to a slight against his son, even if it had been a grave breach of dwarf honor.

Turning back, he folded his arms himself and said, “Very well. I’ll not force you to admit your fault to the elves. But,” he pointed furiously at Lorben before the other dwarf could look too relieved, “you shall not keep that trinket. You shall turn it over to me. It will be turned over to Daín when we reach Lonely Mountain, and put into our coffers along with all our other shared treasures, and none shall know OR hear that you ever had it. OR how you came by it.” Over Lorben’s startled protest, he roared, “You WILL do as I say! Or I SHALL force you into that elf camp to bow to King Thranduil’s son! Decide now, son of Paun!”

The two dwarves locked eyes for a long moment, and it became apparent to all that Naldin was not bluffing in his threat to humiliate Lorben. With a disgusted grunt, Lorben reached inside his tunic, pulled out the pouch, and flung it to the ground at Naldin’s feet before stalking away. Naldin picked the pouch up and pulled out the pearl, examining it. Then he held it up and glared at each of the other dwarves in turn. “When we return to Lonely Mountain, NO ONE is to ever hear of how this thing came into our possession. It is incidents such as these that add to the bad blood between the elves and the dwarves. Whatever they may have done to us, that is no excuse for wrongs in return. If ANY of you disobey this order, you shall have cause to regret it!”

The other dwarves nodded hurriedly, very unsettled. Satisfied, Naldin slipped the pearl into his own tunic, to become the possession of the dwarves of Lonely Mountain.

***

With the setting of the sun, the warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood led their horses again down the trail. It was not long before they came upon the dwarves also on the trail. “A good evening to you, Captain Langcyll, and Lord Glorfindel,” Naldin said cheerfully.

“Good evening, Master Naldin,” replied Glorfindel.

“Are you to hunt on this trail?”

“We are.”

“Shall we take this way together and combine our efforts?”

“We should be most pleased by your help.”

Legolas had suspected by what his friends told him that the elves and dwarves above ground had resolved enough of their differences to work together, but now he was utterly astonished. More than anything by the fact that several dwarves immediately began talking with the elves who were not scouting ahead of the group. Legolas was relieved to be ordered to scout--Langcyll apparently decided that changing his mind was a lost cause--but as he went out ahead, he spotted one thing that shocked him still more.

One of the dwarves had fallen into step with Galithil, of all people, and the two were now talking with the cheer and ease of friends. Faron was staring at them with equal disbelief. Shaking his head to himself, Legolas rode out ahead of the party to scout for orcs. *The world is a strange place, when such different beings can be friends. Perhaps there are such trustworthy dwarves in Middle Earth, but after dealing with Lorben and his friends, I would rather not risk finding out.*

**

“Legolas, I want to show you something. Look, in my box.”

“What have you--Tathar! Where did you get all those? Pearls! All pearls! Did you--you were NOT in the dungeons when we got lost!”

(Snicker!) “I only found one treasure room, but as you see, it was more than enough.”

“How could you not tell me!”

“I’m telling you now! Would I keep such a thing from my best friend?”

“You stole my father’s pearls, Tathar, what will you do when they are missed? The guards know we were down there!”

“There’s little chance of that, there were so many I dug my hand into the barrel and still left it heaping full. Oh, Legolas, the dragon Smaug himself would come for Mirkwood if he knew what’s down there.”

“You may still get into trouble.”

“Come, Legolas, it will be fine. I will give you one if you promise not to tell anybody.”

“I…nay, I do not want one. Someone would find it.”

“Oh, go on, Legolas, I do not begrudge you a share of my treasure! You must take at least one! You are my best friend.”

“I need no pearls to remind me of that, Tathar.”

**

*****

CHARACTER GUIDE: THE DWARF PARTY

Naldin--leader of the group, son of Óin  
Sothi--second-in-command, son of Dwalin  
Sháin--one of the other dwarves, (Galithil’s friend)  
Lorben--one of the dwarves trapped with Legolas and Faron (he’s the one who gets the pearl)  
Therik and Broni--the other two dwarves in the cave

 

ELVISH NAME TRANSLATIONS

 

Mirkwood Elves

Minuial--dawn--Legolas’s deceased mother  
Berensul--bold wind--Legolas’s eldest brother, crown prince  
Eirien--daisy--Berensul’s wife, crown princess  
Limloeth--clear pool--Legolas’s second sister  
Tavron--forester--Legolas’s deceased third brother  
Meren--joy--Legolas’s deceased fourth sister  
Lalaith--laughter--Legolas’s deceased fifth sister  
Belhador--strong spearman--Legolas’s sixth brother

Legolas’s friends and fellow warriors

Merilin--nightingale  
Candrochon--bold rider  
Eregdos--holly tree--a Mirkwood warrior  
Lalven--elm tree--princess of Eryn Vorn who wanted to marry Legolas  
Eregolf--thorn branch--noble elf of Lórien who wound up marrying Lalven

Warriors in Legolas’s party

Langcyll-sword bearer--captain of Mirkwood  
Glanaur--white fire  
Elunen--blue water  
Galithil--pale moon  
Edlothia--flowers  
Tuilinn--swallow  
Fanfirith--autumn cloud  
Fandoll--dark cloud  
Gwilwileth--butterfly  
Caranaur--red sun  
Thalatirn--trusty watcher  
Faron--hunter  
Tathar--willow tree

Lanthir--waterfall--Legolas’s horse  
Sadron--faithful one--Tathar’s horse

Legolas--aw, come on!  



	13. Sins of the Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

Three weeks later…

“Hah! I would wager you gold if I had any!” Legolas grinned challengingly at Elrohir. “Your horse could never beat Lanthir.” The elven horses, sensing that they were the topic of the conversation, had begun prancing and snorting at each other.

Elrohir shook his head as a parent would at an upstart child. “Legolas, Legolas, your lack of experience in the world shows all too clearly. My Ethuil has outrun every horse in Imladris. Swift your mount may be, but no so much as she.”

Their captains had been watching the exchange, and smiled at each other (though the smile seemed challenging.) They were nearly to Moria, and the elven company’s course would soon turn east toward Lórien. As they drew further south, there seemed to be orcs hiding behind every rock, and the entire company was weary from almost incessant fighting every night from dusk until dawn for the past three weeks.

Their path had been rough and steep, and there had been less rain than usual this summer, and many of the mountain creeks had gone down or dried up completely. Neither Langcyll nor Glorfindel had anticipated this--to the chagrin of both--and at one point during this stretch, the company had gone for nearly ten days without finding water. The late August sun beat down mercilessly during the day, and while it was cooler when they traveled by night, the trail was dusty and dry. The situation had been growing serious, until six days before, when the elves had discovered a large mountain stream with a more protected source. The warriors had all but flung themselves in after providing the horses with a much-needed drink, and Galithil and Glorfindel had gone three miles out of their way to inform the dwarves, who were also being hampered by the drought.

Now, their paths had separated again, and it had been four days since discovering their last water source, but the captains did not make the same mistake twice and rationed the water strictly, so their situation was nowhere near as dire as it had threatened to become before. Just the same, that unexpected complication had hurt morale, but tonight for the first time, the spirits of the company seemed lighter.

“I’m sorry to spoil your fun, Elrohir, Legolas, but there shall be no racing. We cannot risk dehydrating your beloved horses,” Glorfindel said, with a shade of playful regret in his tone that none missed.

Langcyll nodded soberly, “Indeed, I fear Lanthir would run poor Ethuil right into the ground, and we could not have that!”

Legolas burst into laughter at Elrohir’s outraged sputtering of protest. The Mirkwood elves all grinned and voiced their agreement with Langcyll while Faron, Elladan, and Glorfindel immediately began disputing Langcyll’s claim. Elrohir mock-glared at Langcyll and his youngest warrior, “Be thankful for this drought, son of Thranduil, or I should put your mount to the test and have your captain regret his uninformed remark.”

Whatever response Langcyll or Legolas would have made was forestalled by a piercing whistle from one of the scouts further down the track. Glorfindel’s head whipped around, “Orcs.”

***

Legolas slashed one of his knives through the neck of the fleeing orc and whirled to chase after another down the trail. He was still a little wary of running too hard on these mountains, lest he or the orc he pursued break through the dry ground again, but his light feet overtook the orc in seconds. The fell creature spun with a screech of terror and attempted to fend Legolas off with its shield--its sword had been shot from its hand by an elven arrow. It was nothing Legolas could not handle, and in a few swift blows and dodges, the orc was down.

Wiping sweat from his face, Legolas turned and quickly surveyed the trail behind him, taking his habitual (and always anxious) mental count of his comrades. There was Faron, tending a slash on Elunen’s arm, and there were Fanfirith and Nathron, returning from chasing down other orcs. He identified Elladan and Elrohir on their horses, beheading some unlucky orcs who made too much noise hiding in the bushes, and Glanaur, Galithil, and Glorfindel were collecting used arrows. And where was…ah, there was Langcyll, standing upon a boulder keeping watch. All present and accounted for, Legolas returned to the company.

“No injuries, Legolas?” Langcyll asked without taking his eyes off the mountainside below them.

“Nay,” Legolas replied, picking up some arrows of his own. “And no orcs escaped my pursuit that I could see.”

“That is well. Elunen? How fares your arm?”

“Superficial, Langcyll. It will not hamper my shooting.”

Legolas heard noises down the trail just as Langcyll turned to look. “The dwarves come. They must have heard the sounds of battle.”

“Shall we make camp here?” Glorfindel asked him.

Langcyll frowned, gazing at the sky. “Yes. The sun is nearly up.”

“Hello, there, Master Elf!” came the cry from down the trail.

The captain waved at the torches bobbing in the predawn gloom, “Here, Master Dwarf!”

“We heard orc screeching, I trust you’re all unharmed?”

“We are all well, thank you. And the orcs are dispatched.”

Moments later, the party of dwarves, Naldin in the lead, “Well, well. Two bits of good news in one morning, Langcyll of Mirkwood. Glad none of you are hurt.”

Legolas had moved to the outskirts of the camp as he continued to collect arrows, but he heard every word that was said. *Please do not ask them to camp with us please do not ask them to camp with us please--*

“We are making camp for the day, if you and your company would care to join us.”

*Confound it! I shall have to either stand a far watch all day or scout for water. Or find an excuse to sleep behind a rock somewhere!* The elf and dwarf companies frequently crossed paths as they continued their respective journeys through the mountains, but Legolas still felt no interest in warming up to the dwarves.

But the offer had been made, and Naldin had accepted, so the dwarves were now joining the elves in preparing the camp and setting watches. Legolas started forward, but Langcyll turned and shot him a look that told Legolas all too clearly not to bother--Langcyll was not going to allow it. Turning away in disgust, Legolas tossed down his blankets next to Faron, not that he needed them in this heat, but at least one could sleep on top of them. Perhaps he could simply sleep the day away. The hot sun made sleeping difficult lately, but after these weeks of endless orc-hunting by night and searching for water by day, he began to think his weariness might overcome the heat.

Several of the elves had gone in search of water, but Legolas knew that if Langcyll would not let him stand a watch, he would not permit the prince to depart with the scouts either. Sighing to himself, Legolas cast himself down onto his blanket, only to have Langcyll call to him, “Legolas, have you not eaten?”

Cursing furiously to himself, Legolas sat up, forced a straight face, and turned to the captain, “Nay, I am not hungry.”

Langcyll simply folded his arms, fixing Legolas with a stern gaze, and fighting the urge to curse again, Legolas rose and made his way to where the elves and dwarves were sharing out rations. None cared to sit near a fire in such heat, so cold meat, bread, and apples were the fare of the morning.

Galithil, deep in conversation with Sháin, glanced up and grinned as Legolas came to collect his share of rations. “Well now, look who decided to eat with us for once. You skip so many meals I am surprised you have never keeled over, Legolas.”

Glaring at her, Legolas went to join several of the Mirkwood elves. The others of Langcyll’s original company had not become nearly so warm with the dwarves as Galithil with Sháin or Elunen with Sothi, though most of them were on better terms with the dwarf party than Legolas. Still, they at least sat a little apart from Naldin’s company. Unfortunately, they still talked to the dwarves at times, which was more conversation than Legolas desired to have.

***

“And this,” Sháin pulled out a blood-red ruby the size of a man’s eye. “This I found nearly thirty years ago, in the Blue Mountains. Cut and polished it myself. Rough, it was the size of a walnut. Like frozen wine, isn’t it?”

Galithil took the heavy jewel in her hand and gazed at it, “It is beautiful,” she agreed. Though she was as willing as any to look at a handsome gem, the elf warrioress could not fathom why men, elves, and dwarves would shed blood for such things. She noticed Sháin staring at her, and smiled, “It is beautiful. I just do not see why…why they would cause such strife among…people.”

“Well, Moon Maiden, there are risks in gaining all valuable things. You and your warriors would fight to prevent men from cutting down your trees, would you not?” the dwarf asked her.

By now, several of the other elves were listening. “But trees are living things,” protested Nathron. “They breathe and drink and give life back to the world.” Looking anxious not to offend the dwarves, he raised a hand and added, “Not that your gems are not lovely to behold. But they are not alive. Why should they be worth such pains?”

“All treasures are worth more, the more pains we take to obtain them, Master Elf,” Sothi replied matter-of-factly. “It takes a great struggle to tear gold or silver or gems from the insides of the earth. That is why such things are treasured.”

Elunen shuddered playfully, “I cannot see myself desiring anything so much that I would crawl inside the earth for it.”

“Nay, all you elves seem content to do is wait for the dwarves to dig up treasure for you and then take it from them by force.”

Lorben stifled a bark of laughter. It was Broni who had spoken. The elves stiffened. Several shot anxious glances at Legolas, particularly Faron and Langcyll, who were the only ones who knew about the pearl. But all the rest knew what Broni the dwarf was referring to. Sothi gave Elunen a little pat and then stood up to face Broni, drawing himself up (which would have looked absurd had not all the elves been sitting down.) “Broni, take Lorben with you, and go scout for water. At once.”

Folding his arms defiantly at the elves, Broni departed with Lorben. When they had gone, Naldin turned and bowed to the elves. He too shot a worried glance at King Thranduil’s son. Legolas was looking fixedly at the ground. The dwarves exchanged embarrassed looks for the rudeness of their companion. Clearing his throat loudly, Sothi asked Glorfindel, “Tell me, Lord Glorfindel, did you happen to see Bilbo Baggins when he came back through.”

In a rush, Glorfindel replied, “Nay, I fear I was on a patrol at the time, but I heard he returned to the Shire.”

Sháin slapped his knee, “Ah, that gladdens my heart. Gandalf the Grey was due back at Lonely Mountain shortly after we left, so we never had tidings of whether that strange little hobbit ever made it home.”

“The sons of Lord Elrond might know better than I,” Glorfindel said, gesturing to Elladan and Elrohir. “I believe they were in Rivendell at the time.”

Elladan nodded, “Indeed we were, and met Bilbo when he came through. Singular, I believe was the word my sister used to describe Bilbo Baggins.”

The dwarves found this greatly amusing, and several roared with laughter. “Aye, singular is how I would speak of him,” chuckled Sothi. “Poor little hobbit, like a fish out of water among us dwarves at such a time. Brave, though. Didn’t abandon us, even when that elven--er, even when things took an ill turn.”

“And the Valar know there were many ill turns during that adventure,” Naldin remarked, shaking his head. “My father Óin said he himself was quite undone by the time it was all over. Just wanted to sleep for a few years.”

“Why did…” When Legolas spoke up, both companies looked startled. None more so than Legolas himself. Blushing somewhat--*he has not done that in years!* Galithil thought--he asked, “Why did the hobbit go with the dwarves to Lonely Mountain in the first place?”

The dwarves exchanged glances, either puzzling over what the answer was or how to respond to Legolas, it was uncertain. Then Sháin shrugged, “I could not say, and neither could Sothi or Naldin’s fathers, I imagine. Gandalf had a great deal to do with it.”

Langcyll chuckled, “Mithrandir has a way of instilling courage in unlikely persons.”

The rest chuckled as well, including, Galithil was surprised to note, Legolas. Almost inaudibly, she heard him murmur to himself, “Yes, he does.”

Naldin had been digging around in the provisions of the dwarves, and returned with a small jug, seating himself next to Glorfindel. “Here, Master Elf, have you ever tasted dwarf ale?” At Glorfindel’s surprised face, the dwarves laughed. “Come, come, Lord Glorfindel, you elves have fine taste in wine, but one must develop an appreciation for a good brew. Go on, try it!”

With a very doubtful expression, Glorfindel accepted the proferred jug and took a small swallow of its contents. There was a pause, then his eyes widened, and the dwarves, along with most of the elves, burst into laughter as he hurriedly returned the jug to Naldin, wiping his mouth. “My thanks--” the way Glorfindel’s voice rasped caused both companies to explode into renewed laughter, and he irritably waved them to be silent. In a somewhat clearer voice, he said, “My thanks, Naldin, but I think I shall always prefer wine.”

Laughing still, Sháin reached for the jug and took a great swig, smiling with satisfaction. He offered the jug to Galithil and laughed when she hastily raised both hands to decline. “Oh, go on, Elf Lady, we must hear the opinion of a wood elf on the subject of ale.”

“Nay, I do not--” Galithil protested, but now the elves of her own company were prodding her as well, and she soon found Langcyll pushing the jug at her. “Oh very well.”

“Yea, I must insist that you all try it,” Naldin declared, getting a guffaw from the dwarves, along with remarks that none of them could appreciate the art of brew making. “Go on, Galithil of Mirkwood, have a taste.”

Praying she would not disgrace herself, Galithil forced herself to take a sip, and immediately gagged, unable to restrain herself from spitting it out. The companies roared with laughter as she stammered her apologies, and the jug went on to its next victim, Elunen (who also could not swallow it.)

In the end, every elf, even Legolas, tasted the dwarf ale, and the dwarves could not convince them that such a beverage was fit for an elven table. Legolas proved stronger than any of the other Mirkwood elves; his eyes watered and he coughed furiously, but he was the only one of his company who did manage to swallow it.

***

At dusk, the companies separated again, and the elves moved on down the mountain leading their horses. Elladan smiled with relief as they rounded another mountain bend and saw that they would soon be entering a break in the mountains. “There now, that shall be a welcome change of scenery.”

They reached the gap several weeks later. “Just beyond this valley is Caradhas,” Langcyll said, pointing at the high, forbidding peak rising in the distance. “Beneath it lies Moria.”

The valley did not have the slightly scorched appearance that the mountainsides had of late. All was green, and many mountain creeks had emptied into a lake here that was wide and deep enough to withstand the lack of rain. The company would be able to drink its fill here. And eat too, from the looks of the apple trees, their branches laden with deep red fruit.

As they were watering the horses, Elrohir spotted Legolas looking speculatively at the green meadow about them, surrounded by majestic peaks. Legolas turned then and saw Elrohir watching him. Both grinned. “Perhaps Langcyll and Glorfindel will not say no to that race now, my friend,” Elrohir said slyly.

Legolas, feeding an apple to Lanthir, did not speak, but turned and raised his eyebrows at Faron and Elladan. They both grinned in turn. Galithil and Fanfirith were giggling. Elrohir patted Ethuil’s neck and murmured, “We have him now, my beauty.”

“Elrohir!” a sharp voice rang out. The group froze and Elrohir turned to see Glorfindel, with Langcyll a step behind him, glaring at him. Glorfindel strode forward sternly, “Are you instigating this foolish exercise yet again?”

Sheepishly, Elrohir looked at the others. Faron and Elladan were staring at the ground, Galithil and Fanfirith were attempting to busy themselves with their saddlebags, and Legolas was blushing furiously. “And you, Legolas?” Langcyll said severely. “We’ve been in a drought for weeks now. You ought to know better than to talk of racing horses under such conditions.”

Elrohir turned back to face the captains, and caught the faintest twitch at the corner of Langcyll’s mouth. With intense relief, he cracked a grin of his own, and the company’s leaders could no longer hide their smiles. Behind him, Elrohir heard Legolas sigh with relief, and turned to see him grinning as well. “So then, by your leaves, sirs, shall we test the horses of Mirkwood and Imladris?”

Glorfindel smirked and folded his arms, “By all means, young prince, but do not be surprised when the racer of Imladris outmatches your mount.”

“Hah!” was Langcyll’s only remark on that subject.

***

“Where are they to race?” demanded Galithil, staring eagerly at the wide field. The captains had not lost all sense in the eagerness to partake of this rare chance for merrymaking, and had insisted that the company sleep and eat before beginning the challenge between Legolas and Elrohir.

Langcyll and Glorfindel were debating that matter as the others watched. “To the far end and back?” suggested Langcyll.

“Nay, it is too far,” Glorfindel said. “It is true that we must not strain the horses for the sake of our morale.” He looked about the valley. “We are closer to the opposite end. Let them race to where the gap in the mountains leads back down to the plains, and then turn back and return to us.”

Langcyll shaded his eyes and examined the track Glorfindel suggested. “Yea, that will do. Very well, we have our course!” he declared to the others, who applauded.

Legolas and Elrohir were warming up their horses on the grass near the lake, cantering about. Elladan, standing next to Faron, grinned at the elves of Mirkwood. “Mirkwood may have the finest archer, but Imladris shall prove itself to have the finest horses, my friends.”

With a dismissive wave, Fanfirith retorted, “Mirkwood has the TWO finest archers in Middle Earth, I would hasten to remind you. And we shall soon see about the horses. Shall we wager?”

“I should enjoy it--if I possessed anything suitable to bet with,” Faron remarked, and the company laughed.

“Come, the rest of you, we require your assistance if this race is to be finished by sundown,” Langcyll said, beckoning to the party.

The sun was growing low in the sky indeed, and the company lost no more time placing themselves in a line down to the edge of the valley so that Legolas and Elrohir would see their course better. At last, the two racers rode eagerly up to where Glorfindel was waiting for them. He did not shout, but the keen ears of all the company heard what he said. “Very well, riders of Mirkwood and Imladris, here is your track. You shall ride straight down the valley past your companions to where Langcyll awaits you. You shall then ride around him to his left and return back the exact same way that you came. The first rider to pass me shall be declared the winner. Do you understand?”

“Perhaps you describe the course more clearly,” Legolas said in something of a drawl. “I fear your explanation may have been beyond Elrohir’s limits.”

“Well, let us hope your directions are not beyond your horse’s limits,” retorted Elrohir, earning shouts and jeers from up and down the line.

Glorfindel waved brusquely at them, “Peace, all of you. Come, you competitive boys. Elrohir shall be on my left, Legolas on my right.”

“I protest, who gave Elrohir the rights to the inside path?!” demanded Elunen from halfway down the line of elves.

Legolas raised his hand charitably, “Fear not, Elunen, I shall not be hampered by riding a few extra lengths. It seems only fair that I should handicap myself for the sake of giving Elrohir something of an even chance.” Now the jeers came from the Mirkwood side.

“Very well, very well. Make ready,” Glorfindel told them, smiling broadly. He paused and waved his arm in the air to Langcyll at the far end, receiving an answering wave from the Mirkwood captain, and each elf of the company along the line. “Are you ready then?”

Legolas and Elrohir nodded eagerly. Legolas leaned forward in the saddle, feeling Lanthir tense underneath him. His horse always knew when there was glory to be had. “Ride hard, my friend,” he murmured.

“Ready,” Glorfindel raised his arms. “Ride!”

With the drop of the Imladris captain’s arms, both horses were off, their riders leaning forward in the saddle, concentrating on giving them the proper guidance. Casting long shadows in the last rays of the sun, the elves cheered lustily as their comrades raced down the plain.

Legolas felt Lanthir’s powerful legs surging beneath him as the gray horse raced down the plain towards the waiting Langcyll, as his companions shrieked their encouragement at him. It is often said that horses bred and trained by the elves acquire some elvish characteristics, and to see them run suggests there is a grain of truth to the legends. For the mounts of Legolas and Elrohir seemed barely to touch the ground as they flew on, and indeed their feet left little impression in the soft earth for animals who were running so hard.

Legolas spared a quick glance to the left; Elrohir was directly beside him, perhaps ahead by a nose. But the horses of Mirkwood are trained for their endurance to cover the wide forest and surrounding plains, a fact which Legolas was counting upon. So he did not urge Lanthir up to his full speed, merely kept pace with Elrohir, feeling Lanthir’s powerful strides as the wind whipped his hair.

He waited, waited, and as they drew closer to Langcyll, Legolas suddenly whispered, “Ride hard, Lanthir! Fly!” Pouring on a burst of speed, Lanthir obeyed his rider and charged forward, surging ahead to the excited cries of the Mirkwood elves.

Legolas braced himself. This bend around Langcyll would be very tight at such speed. He must leave Elrohir enough room. Leaning to the left, he measured the distance closely as they bore down on Langcyll, then guided Lanthir into a swift, sharp U-turn around the Mirkwood captain. Elrohir took advantage of being on the inside of the turn, and was nearly up to Legolas again as they charged around, leaning far over on their mounts’ backs. All at once--

“Ai!” Movement on the plains beyond the mountains caught Legolas’s eye, just as Lanthir gave a wild neigh and shied sharply to the left, nearly falling over and all but pitching his rider from the saddle. Legolas managed to get his arms around his horse’s neck, but the movement brought them right into Elrohir and Ethuil. The mare whinnied in surprise and also swerved, and Elrohir did lose his grip and fall in his effort to jerk her back and avoid striking Langcyll.

The eager shouts of the elves turned to cries of dismay, and all of them rushed to the accident. Just as it seemed Legolas was getting Lanthir under control, and Elrohir stood to calm Ethuil, both horses inexplicably panicked again. Elrohir threw himself from range of his bucking horse’s legs, but Legolas clung grimly to Lanthir’s mane, trying to discern what could so spook elven horses with their riders. But Lanthir seemed in a frenzy, and raced wildly about.

“Legolas! Jump off!” someone shouted.

“No, he’d break his neck!” cried another.

“Hold on!” “What ails those horses?!”

“Lanthir!” Legolas exclaimed, struggling to bring his panicked horse under control. “Lanthir, do not fight me! What is it?”

The horse at last ceased bucking and shying, and slowed to where Legolas could catch his breath and right himself. Elrohir had also gotten his horse under control. “What could possibly--”

Legolas whirled, distant sounds pricking his ears. Immediately, he realized what had frightened the horses. “Orcs! On the flatland below the mountains!”

The other elves could now detect the distant orc-shrieks, and hurried to the hillside to look. “He is right. What are they doing?!” exclaimed Elrohir, still soothing Ethuil.

“They are far out, and there is a fog. I cannot see well,” murmured Langcyll, squinting in the moonless dark.

Legolas peered into the hazy darkness, trying to filter out something worth seeing. All at once, it was there, the faint spots of torchlight, moving as though the carriers were in a great rush. “There! Travelers on the plains, Langcyll! The orcs are attacking them!”

Langcyll wasted no time, but whistled sharply for his own horse. The other elves did the same, and soon all were mounted. Fortunately, the captains had not abandoned caution for their fun either, and all the elves still wore their weapons. “Ride!” Langcyll shouted, and the company charged out of the valley, between the gap in the mountains, onto the plains below.

“Look, Langcyll!” Glorfindel cried, seeing another object illuminated by the travelers’ torches. “The flag of Mirkwood! They are a Mirkwood party.”

“Probably bound for Rivendell--make haste! Fly!”

Looking to the left, Legolas saw more torches and realized the dwarf party had heard the orcs as well. The torches bobbed as the dwarves signaled to Langcyll, who waved at them to invite their assistance. The torches waved in response, and the dwarf company charged out of the mountains as well, after the orcs who were attacking innocent travelers.

***

“Orcs, my lord!” one of the guards shouted to King Thranduil of Mirkwood.

The elven king had already drawn his sword, awaiting the attack as the shrieks of the foul creatures grew louder. *Even with a full guard, it seems no company remains safe,* he thought.

Falling with a great screech, the orcs were upon the party of Mirkwood. Thranduil braced himself and met the orc charge with his sword whirling, slashing them before they could get within their own blades’ reach of him. For several millennia, the children of Thranduil had come to fame of their own as warriors, and it was easy to forget that the elven king himself was a renowned bearer of all weapons.

Orcs were coming from everywhere, and Thranduil was growing anxious as he heard cries of pain in elven voices from about him. *This fight goes ill. Our escort is well-armed and well-trained, but the beasts have the advantage in sheer numbers.*

Half a dozen orcs suddenly pressed toward Thranduil all at once, trying to overwhelm him, and he backed up swiftly, swinging his sword in one hand and a torch in the other to keep them at bay. Then a collective orc shriek went up as new battle cries filled the air, along with the whinnies of many horses. He heard the challenge shouts of familiar elf voices, and Thranduil needed no long glance to see that one of his realm’s war parties had discovered them. It was an immense relief.

Even as he fought, Thranduil glanced about him trying to see with one part of his mind whose party this was, for many warriors were abroad at this time. But the elves and orcs flitted too swiftly in and out of the torchlight, and all he could identify were fair and dark heads.

Ducking under an orc-scimitar, the king of Mirkwood thought he spied Glorfindel of Imladris, but more orcs pressed toward him and he could not be sure. Parrying a flurry of wild blows from another orc, he dispatched the creature and managed a quick look around. About a dozen elves had joined them, but the orcs were still coming. Their predicament was very serious. Elven arrows sliced through the air, but even as orcs dropped, others seemed to burst from the shadows beyond the torchlight to take the places of the fallen.

All at once, new battle cries echoed, and for a moment Thranduil was disoriented, for the cries were familiar yet strange. The elven king rolled under a blow from an orc shield aimed for his head and found himself staring at a large company of dwarves, axes brought to bear, charging into the fray. Most were so intent on the orcs that they did not even notice him, or perhaps did not recognize him, but the one in the lead practically froze in his tracks. Thranduil faltered as well, and had it not been for the dwarves rushing past him to drive the orcs back, he might have been wounded.

But there was no time to demand explanations on either side, and the elven king and the unexpected arrivals charged back into the battle. Now the fray seemed still more confusing, for Thranduil was certain he had seen Glorfindel of Imladris, as well as Elrohir son of Elrond (therefore it went without saying that Elladan was here as well) but the king thought he had also seen Elunen and Langcyll of Mirkwood.

Another elf, fair-haired and too slight to be Glorfindel, swept through the torchlight for a moment, but a stray orc sword swept the torch to the ground before Thranduil could identify the warrior, who looked like he hailed from Lórien. The king charged at another groups of orcs menacing one of his guards, who had been wounded by an arrow. Whirling back from dropping several of them, Thranduil aimed his sword at another, only to have it dropped from behind by the Lórien warrior. The momentum drove the younger elf forward, and he caught his balance less than five feet from Thranduil.

Thranduil blinked. This elf of Lórien wore Mirkwood colors. Their eyes met, and the concentration of battle fled the young elf’s face--along with most of the color. His dark gray eyes were wide as he froze in shock… “Father!”

 

Time did not seem to crawl. Time seemed to stop.

 

It did not seem possible. Thranduil scarcely knew this warrior. It had only been two years! How could this be? Yet here he was, and the strange expression in his dark eyes was all that gave him away. Had this elf not reacted to his own recognition of the king, Thranduil believed he would never have recognized him at all.

It was Legolas.

Father and son, both frozen in disbelief--and no small measure of dismay--were for a moment oblivious to the fighting taking place around them. An elf’s cry of pain to one side finally snapped Thranduil out of it, and he rushed to the wounded warrior’s aid, forcing himself to turn from the astonished face of his son.

The elven king’s mind was in such turmoil that he did not even feel rankled by the fact that the assistance of the dwarves was at last gaining them the upper hand. Thranduil did not join the pursuers chasing the rest of the orcs across the plains, but he saw the fair head amongst the others and knew that Legolas had.

*Legolas. He is here. My son.*

***

Legolas fought to keep his mind on what he was doing, lest he face an injury due to lack of concentration. But the turmoil in his mind refused to subside, and one thought whirled frantically round and round in his head, trying to blot out the fight he was struggling to finish. *He is here. My father is here.*

With a savagery that had little to do with his hatred of orcs, Legolas slashed to pieces the orc he had managed to catch up to, seized its sword, and went looking for more. Anything to take him further away from Thranduil. *I must face him. After everything that I did, I practically ran away without a word to him.* He challenged another orc and swept forward with his sword, dodging the creature’s slashing scimitar. *He went back to live in the caves like a dwarf. He locked people in the dungeons--those dungeons! He nearly started a war for a share of that dragon’s treasure!*

Legolas ducked and parried another blow from the growling orc, but he barely saw it. Instinct alone was guiding him, for his mind was somewhere else. *I do not know him anymore! I cannot face him! I am afraid--*  
  
The orc sensed its opponent’s loss of concentration, and with an awful clang!, it slammed its scimitar into Legolas’s sword, knocking the weapon from the elf’s hand. Cursing, Legolas drew both of his knives and dove into a roll under a sweeping blow from the orc. He suffered a swipe on the forehead as he leapt back to his feet, but managed to slash the creature’s arm, forcing it to drop its own weapon. Venting his frantic emotions with a furious onslaught of knife-blows, Legolas all but dismembered the creature with his knives.

Breathing hard, the prince of Mirkwood looked around, hoping to find another foe, but the orcs were defeated, and those who had fled were too far out of reach in this darkness. *I think I would rather face the darkness.*

***

Langcyll scanned the battlefield absently, noting the large number of wounded elves and dwarves. That orc army must have been lying in wait for the travelers, and that was why the company had failed to see or hear them sooner. Frowning, he turned to where Legolas was standing motionless on the outskirts, staring into the dark. Langcyll was confused and troubled, for he too had seen Legolas fighting those last few orcs, and the young warrior had seemed completely distracted. *He’s lucky that orc wasn’t quicker or he’s have lost his head to that scimitar.*

The captain purposefully started forward, intending to demand an accounting for such poor fighting form, when from the corner of his eye, he noticed another elf also making for Legolas. Without thinking, Langcyll turned to tell the other warrior to leave off, and at that instant, the other elf also looked at him.

It was King Thranduil. He and Langcyll both stopped dead in their tracks, and for a moment, Langcyll could not find his voice. “My lord!” he finally blurted. *Of all the elves in Middle Earth who could have appeared at this moment…*

Langcyll’s king hesitated, then said, “Well met, Langcyll. Your timing was excellent.” Thranduil seemed distracted, and Langcyll had no trouble guessing by what. *So that is why Legolas was behaving so strangely.*

Before he knew what he was doing, the captain of Mirkwood called out, “Legolas!” His youngest warrior turned to face him, and went practically rigid when he saw the king standing close to Langcyll. Taking a deep breath, Langcyll ordered him, “Some of your comrades are wounded. See to them at once.” Legolas all-too-willingly did as he was told. Langcyll forced himself to face the king, then saw that he needn’t have bothered. Thranduil had eyes only for Legolas. “Forgive me, my lord. I must see to my warriors.”

Blinking as though just remembering that Langcyll was there, Thranduil nodded, “Of course.” He slowly turned and went to help one of the guards from his party.

Langcyll walked back to where the wounded warriors were being tended, and noticed Glorfindel heading in his direction. He walked a few steps out of his way to avoid speaking to the Imladris captain; Glorfindel doubtlessly had plenty of advice to impart, none of which Langcyll cared to hear. The captain of Mirkwood surveying the warriors by the fire, and his eyes inevitably were drawn to Legolas. The young warrior was bandaging an ugly slash on Faron’s shoulder, and worrying over whether his friend had lost too much blood. Elladan had taken an arrow in the thigh, Glanaur and Fanfirith had also been wounded. Several of king Thranduil’s company were being tended, along with four of the dwarves.

*It would have been much worse for us if the dwarves had not come,* Langcyll thought grimly. And that was another problem. Those dwarves who were neither caring for the injured nor injured themselves stood in a tight knot well away from the elves, and the eyes of every one were fixed on the elven king. *Curse whatever fate brought Thranduil here! This might well have been a turning point in our relations with the dwarves but for this unhappy chance!*

After a long conference among themselves, the dwarves spoke to their wounded companions, and apparently came to a consensus. Naldin, son of Óin, walked a few paces closer to Langcyll and said, “Captain Langcyll, if you have the situation under control, I think it would be…for the best if my company departed now.”

Langcyll nodded grimly, feeling the eyes of the king boring into the back of his head. “You have my thanks for your MANY acts of assistance to us, Master Naldin.” He dared not name Naldin’s father.

Naldin replied, “And we also owe you our thanks, Master Elf. I do not expect our companies shall meet again.” With a bow, he concluded, “We take our leave.”

Langcyll also bowed to the group, “Safe journey, Master Dwarves.”

With that, the dwarves reassembled, and quickly departed the area for the mountains once again. Langcyll noticed with a brief flicker of amusement that Sháin glanced back and waved at Galithil as he walked off with the others. Sothi had also bidden a personal farewell to Elunen, and a few of the others were looking back at Langcyll and his company with shades of regret in their bearded faces. (On the other hand, Lorben, Therik, and Broni seemed all too eager to be setting off.) With regrets of his own, Langcyll turned to Glorfindel and raised his eyebrows (the elven equivalent of a shrug.) It really had been for the best that the dwarves had departed as quickly as possible. Perhaps that way, at least some semblance of good feelings between the elves and the dwarves had been allowed to linger in the end.

*Indeed, considering the king’s state of mind at this moment, it would not be a good time for diplomacy.* Langcyll forced himself to return to practical matters. “My lord,” he called to Thranduil. “How many of your company are wounded?”

The king replied, “Eight of the twenty,” without once meeting Langcyll’s eyes. Thranduil was staring past Langcyll at where the wounded were being treated, and Langcyll did not need to turn and look to know without question what his liege was watching. A thought that Langcyll had been struggling to suppress continued to force its way into his mind, a bitter memory of Glorfindel’s warning to him that rang over and over in his head, leaving him powerless to shut it out.

**

“Langcyll, Legolas is a prince of Mirkwood. He is Thranduil’s son.

Not yours.”

**

Langcyll closed his eyes, but the words would not be repressed. *Not yours…*

***

Thranduil felt as though he had been rooted to the ground. Even the very odd involvement of the dwarves in this battle had not managed to command his attention away from the figure of his son, working beside the fire. The king could do nothing but stare, bewildered, awed, and grieved by how deeply two years had changed Legolas.

Physically, on the outside, the king’s youngest son did not look very different. Perhaps a little slimmer, but Legolas had always been trim, (unlike Thranduil, who was quite sturdy for an elf and had even been able to pass himself off as a man in his youth.) Legolas was facing Thranduil’s direction, but his attention was focused upon the wounded elf he was tending. Thranduil wondered to himself, had his son’s face really changed so much? Or was it a worried father’s imagination, at seeing the worry that furrowed the young elf’s brow and the bloody streak across his forehead. Or perhaps it was the shadows under his dark eyes that spoke of long, hard travel, and numerous battles, with not enough sleep to make up for them.

Legolas rose then, looking up at the sound of another elf calling his name, then went to assist another wounded warrior. It was clear to any observer that Legolas was not viewed by his comrades as a recent novice or newcomer, but as a veteran warrior with far more battle experience than was normal for two short years. Thranduil sighed in spite of himself, still feeling lost and confused. Legolas was as fair as ever, and his features remained very like his mother, yet…for some strange reason, the resemblance was not so obvious anymore. The bones of his face seemed a little more pronounced, not that he was gaunt by any means, but still, there was a…hardness. And Thranduil understood what it was about his perception of Legolas that had nearly prevented him from recognizing his own child.

Legolas had left him as an untried novice. Now, only two years since then (an eternity to a parent but a blink by elven standards) Legolas was a warrior. Undeniably, unmistakably, and irreversibly, a warrior. And the timid, uncertain, inexperienced child that Thranduil had last seen was gone forever, and had gone without saying goodbye.

As that fact dawned upon him, Thranduil, elven king of Mirkwood, one of the greatest of the elven realms in all Middle Earth, felt a terrible urge to stand where he was…and weep.

***

“Legolas.” The prince of Mirkwood felt his hands tremble slightly as he finished bandaging Glanaur’s knife wound. How strange it felt. The voice behind him was so familiar, and yet so alien at the same time. Among a thousand other confused emotions, Legolas felt puzzlement, for he was frightened. Being afraid in itself was not something to deny; Legolas had been taught that there was no shame in any emotion as long as it did not prevent one from taking action. But this fear…it had to be wrong. It must be wrong to be so deathly afraid to turn and face his own father.

“Legolas?”

He had no other task that could claim his attention. There was no choice. *I must rise. I cannot hide from him.* Forcing a reassuring smile at Glanaur, whose eyes were concerned for Legolas despite the warrior’s own wound, Legolas slowly stood up and turned to face the king of Mirkwood. “Father.”

Thranduil looked as tense as Legolas felt. It was no surprise to Legolas; the king doubtlessly felt the weight of many unspoken words just as his son did. *And I would rather leave those words unspoken. At least now.*

“Well, my son,” Thranduil said at last. “You have changed. I hardly recognized you.” Legolas could find no reply to that, so he simply stood there and waited for his father to say more. “It has been a long two years.”

“Y--” his voice failed him on the first try. Legolas wanted to curse. He had fought countless battles and seen incredible horror and grief over the past two years--why, oh, why should he be so nervous about speaking to his own father?! “Yes. It has. The shadow has grown over Middle Earth.”

“I imagine you have seen much action in the mountains.”

“Yes we have.” *This is ridiculous, I sound as a child, yessing him so! I must either say my piece or depart. I am not required to dance attendance while more pressing matters exist! If I‘ve nothing to say, I‘ve no reason to stand here.*

The king seemed to also be groping for words, and Legolas frantically searched for a graceful way to exit--and occupy himself for a more extended period of time (preferably until either the king’s party or his own company moved on). Just as the silence was beginning to weigh heavily, like the answer to a prayer, a voice called, “Legolas?”

“Yes?” Legolas all but whirled around, so relieved was he.

It was Langcyll, sitting beside several of the injured warriors while they rested. “Please forgive me,” he said more to the king than to Legolas, “but Faron is awakening and asking for you.”

Turning hastily back to the king, Legolas said, “Forgive me, Father.” Thranduil nodded automatically, and Legolas had to restraining himself from all-out running away.

Faron, who had lost a great deal of blood from that wound, was not as close to wakening as Langcyll had thought. Legolas frowned, briefly distracted from his own problems, and checked his friend’s pulse. It was steady, and the healers from his company and the king’s attendants had all agreed Faron would recover completely. Legolas did not have nearly as trained an eye as the more seasoned warriors, but he suspected Faron would sleep on for several more hours.

Behind Legolas came Langcyll himself. “He did not wake?“ the captain asked.

“Nay,” Legolas replied. “Perhaps…he was dreaming and began to move.”

“Hmm.” Legolas glanced up and saw Langcyll gazing with a troubled expression over the bloodied field, taking in the wounded warriors, the healthy ones standing guard, and the king still watching them. The captain passed a weary hand over his eyes and said, “Stay with Faron if you wish, Legolas, but you must sleep tonight. We have been neglectful of rest these past few months. While there is more protection, we must make the most of it. There will be time for conversations later.”

“Yes, Langcyll.” If his captain had ordered him to sleep rather than talk, Legolas was quite happy to obey. But it troubled Legolas that the veteran warrior had thought Faron was waking so soon after such an injury. Langcyll must have been very worried over how badly the battle had gone to make such an error in judgment.

Legolas saw Thranduil still watching him, but resolutely went to Lanthir and retrieved his bedroll, laying it next to Faron and casting himself down. Cursing himself for his skittishness, he could not restrain himself from looking once more, and the king’s eyes were still upon him even as exhaustion from battle and excess emotion claimed his weary body. He went to sleep deeply unhappy.

***

Elladan had been keeping watch after the battle, and with dawn came a cold but much-needed rain. The shower roused all the elves before long, and many of those who had been wounded in the dusk battle were well on the mend.

*At least that is a small mercy,* Elladan thought, watching as Faron tested his shooting after the shoulder injury, and found that his aim was true. Fanfirith and Elunen could both walk, if limping slightly, and Glanaur would be beating everyone at sword practice again in a day or two. The eight wounded warriors of King Thranduil’s company were also recovering well.

*Thranduil. Of all the elves in Middle Earth, it was Thranduil we encountered here, now. I wonder, did the Valar decide life for us was not complicated enough by this shadow? With Prince Legolas in our company and dwarves fighting with us, we had to cross paths with the king of Mirkwood.* Mentally shaking his head at the wickedness of fate, the son of Elrond observed the activity in the camp.

Legolas, roused like the others by the cold prickle of raindrops, was helping to stir up the fires and tending the injuries of the other warriors. To Elladan, the prince seemed desperate for something to do, anything that would keep him busy--and, Elladan translated, away from the king. *You cannot avoid him forever, my friend. So why do you try? Better to face him now, and even have it out if necessary, rather than let these old and new resentments boil within both of you.*

But apparently, Legolas was opting for the evasion tactic, and found some pressing activity any time King Thranduil took so much as a step or a glance in his direction. He also had the hood of his cloak up, ostensibly to keep off the rain, but in the process, effectively hiding his eyes from anyone he did not directly look at.

Turning his attention to Thranduil, Elladan had to suppress a shudder. The king had looked utterly stunned and shaken the night before by the unexpected reunion with Legolas, but now the initial shock had passed, and Thranduil clearly desired to speak to him. It was uncertain whether Thranduil knew what he wished to say, but Elladan could tell that the king wanted a moment with his son. And, worse yet, whatever Thranduil’s other faults, he was no fool. His gaze, never leaving Legolas as the young warrior worked, had grown darker throughout the morning, and Elladan was becoming very uneasy. *Legolas, you little fool, forget your own grievances and speak to him before there is trouble! You know how dangerous Thranduil is when he is angered!*

It both did and did not amaze Elladan that Legolas, who could face raging orcs, slavering wargs, and all the horrors of life as a warrior head-on without faltering, could suffer such a loss of courage in the matter of his own father. *Nay, I am too harsh in my thoughts toward him. Even warriors have their weaknesses, and to most of us, it is our family. But therein lies the difference between Legolas and others. For most warriors, their weakness is love,* Elladan glanced at his brother, one of the wounded, to confirm his thought, and sighed repentantly. *For Legolas, it is fear. And shame.*

***

Legolas, keeping himself busy by gathering and mending spent arrows, prayed that Langcyll would order the company to move out again at dusk. Another night here, and he would likely run out of reasons not to speak to King Thranduil. He still felt unready--and unwilling--to face the conversation that he and his father would eventually be forced to have.

Faron walked over and sat down next to him, taking a handful of arrows and starting work. Though Legolas was glad of this company at least, he wished Faron had not, for it would speed up the task and force Legolas to search for something else to do. He focused his attention fixedly on the arrowhead he was sharpening, feeling eyes on him from all direction. So tense was the prince of Mirkwood that he all but jumped out of his skin when Faron spoke at last. Bluntly. “I do not believe I have ever seen you so nervous.”

Raising his eyes from the troublesome arrow, Legolas replied quietly, “Have you often seen me nervous?”

His friend chuckled quietly, “Oh indeed, when I journeyed to Mirkwood on occasion as a novice, I cannot recall having ever seen you when you were not nervous about some matter of import or another. Then again, everything was a matter of great import to you back then.” There was a hint of sorrow in Faron’s voice at the memory of those past times.

Legolas found himself smiling wryly as well, “I worried about a great deal, it is true. Looking back, I wonder how I could have given myself such anxiety over such trivialities.”

“We were children. I suppose it is natural.”

“Yes.”

Silence descended again, then Legolas felt Faron looking at him and raised his head. Faron began softly, “Legolas--”

“--Faron. I know what you would say,” Legolas cut him off, but not rudely. “Please. Do not. It is no use.”

In a voice barely above a whisper, his friend protested, “You cannot run from him forever!”

“I am not running,” Legolas hissed back, praying none of the others could hear them. “I…I am simply not ready.”

In a fashion that was painfully reminiscent of Tathar, Faron snorted. In a more normal voice, he said, “Legolas, you and I both know that fate seldom waits for the time when we decree ourselves ready to face a challenge.”

Whatever reply Legolas would have come up with was fortunately avoided by the arrival of Galithil. The young warrioress joined her comrades and began repairing several broken bows while the other two continued with the arrows. “How are you this morning, Galithil?” Legolas asked her, relieved to change the subject.

Galithil smiled, though she also looked tense. This situation was having ill effects upon them all, Legolas noticed grimly. “I am well, thank you, Legolas. Faron? Your wound is not troublesome, I see?” At his nod, she met Legolas’s eyes and said softly, “Langcyll has told the king he wishes to move on at dusk. He says we are far behind our time and must reach Lothlórien within two weeks.”

Legolas could not hold back a sigh of relief, and ignored Faron’s annoyed expression. Faron was a close friend, but he could not possibly understand the situation Legolas faced. Galithil smiled slightly at Legolas, more sympathetic. As she reached for another bow, a small stone fell from the pocket of her pouch. “What have you got there?” Faron asked, and before she could respond, he had picked it up.

The discovery of the stone did not seem to trouble Galithil terribly, so Legolas also leaned forward and looked at it. “That is lovely,” he murmured, attracted to it in spite of himself. Legolas had never seen such a gem before. It had the pure white luster of a pearl, but was clearly not one. Nor did it have the flickers of colored fire like that of an opal. It was heavy, smooth, round, but rather flat, the size of a thumbnail. It was an opaque white, with a tint of gray-blue.

Faron voiced Legolas’s thought, “I have never seen such a stone before.” With a sly grin, he said, “Sháin of Lonely Mountain gave it to you.” It was not a question.

Galithil grinned sheepishly and nodded. “He said he was sorry that he did not have the opportunity to show us the wonders of Moria, that this would have to suffice.” She giggled, “I confess I did like that dwarf, but I am glad he settled for the stone as opposed to a tour underground.”

“I too would agree with that exchange,” Legolas said vehemently, and chuckled as Faron nodded in vigorous agreement. Then he drawled, “Very generous, that Sháin. I seem to recall someone saying that dwarves would make off with anything made of metal.”

He and Faron laughed aloud as Galithil raised her hands defensively. “Ah, I admit it freely, my friends, I was in error. I believe elves and dwarves are capable of getting along.”

Now Legolas found himself snorting. “Perhaps in this case, but I doubt that such a thing would be possible for any great length of time. Not to impugn your friend,” he added hastily at Galithil’s outraged expression. Then he grinned, “I‘ve no doubt his friendliness was sincere. But he seemed unlike most dwarves, and you are not an ordinary elf.” He grinned slyly at her, and shook his head, “All in all, I suspect such a friendship was a mere fluke.”

Aware of the futility of changing his mind, Galithil rolled her eyes, smiling good-naturedly. Faron gestured to the gem she held, “So, that was his parting gift to you? What exactly is it?”

With a distant smile, and very faint blush, Galithil replied, “He said it is called moonstone.”

***

Elladan was not the only one deeply worried by the rising tension between the king of Mirkwood and his youngest son. Glorfindel, from where he stood tending the horses of both companies, kept a discreet eye on the other elves and felt his own anxiety growing as well.

The sun was well into the west, and Langcyll was determined that the company should move on at dusk, now that it was certain that the guards of Mirkwood had taken no lasting hurts. But Glorfindel’s concern was not only directed at Thranduil and Legolas. The king and the prince were certainly playing a game of hunt-and-hide around the camp, and that was cause for worry, but Legolas would never be able to evade Thranduil so successfully if he did not have an ally.

Every time that Thranduil attempted to approach Legolas, the young warrior would search desperately for some task to occupy his attention, and Langcyll was all too willing to find him one every time. Consequently, the prince managed to have a legitimate excuse always to avoid speaking to the king, and Glorfindel could see the king’s confused frustration beginning to smolder into genuine anger.

Like many others this day, Glorfindel was cursing the ill timing of fate. *Perhaps if it had not been so soon after Tathar’s death, the situation would not be so bad. The heart of Legolas would not be so fragile, and Langcyll might have got past this protectiveness. But if Legolas does not speak to his father at all, and we depart, things will go very ill the next time they meet.*

In desperation, Glorfindel decided to try for the sake of all concerned to intervene. He waited until Langcyll was busy discussing orc activity with the captain of the king’s guard, and advanced purposefully on the prince. As usual, Legolas was busy, packing saddlebags with Faron and Galithil. “Legolas.” The young elf looked up. “I would speak with you,” Glorfindel said.

Legolas hesitated, startled by the Imladris elf’s stern tone. “At once,” Glorfindel added, in a tone that brooked no argument. Having no choice, Legolas shot an anxious look at his two equally-startled friends, and followed Glorfindel to the edge of the camp. Glorfindel turned and faced the prince of Mirkwood directly. There was little time. He came straight out with it. “Legolas, we depart in barely an hour’s time. You must speak with King Thranduil before then.”

Legolas blinked, caught off-guard. “I--” he glanced hopefully across the camp, but Langcyll’s back was turned still. “I do not…”

“Legolas!” Glorfindel said urgently, towering over the young warrior and lowering his voice to almost a hiss. He disliked deliberately intimidating anyone, but at this point, the situation had to be defused by any means necessary. “You canNOT leave this place without once speaking to your father. To depart with such bad blood between you will only invite disaster.” Forcing himself to calm, he said gently, “I am aware that the conversation will have its unpleasant points, but the differences between you must be faced. When it is done, you will feel better for it.”

To Glorfindel’s relief, Legolas looked more thoughtful, and he believed he was getting through. Pressing his advantage, he went on, “It is for the sake of us all, young prince. I am sorry to place such a burden on you, but you are aware how King Thran--”

“Legolas?” both elves jumped and turned. It was all Glorfindel could do not to groan. Langcyll had seen them. The game was up. He prayed that Legolas would heed his advice.

“Langcyll?” the prince called back.

“We are breaking camp. Assist Fanfirith and Nathron with loading the horses, if you please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Legolas walked away without meeting Glorfindel‘s eyes, and that was all the answer the older elf needed. Glorfindel gathered up some empty water skins and carried them to a nearby creek to fill. Once there, and well out of earshot, the warrior captain of Imladris began to curse savagely and creatively, in every language he could think of.

***

When Langcyll told his warriors that it was time to depart, Legolas felt an insane desire to laugh with relief. *Thank the Valar. I was perilously close to going mad.* Glorfindel’s words still hovered somewhere in the back of his mind, but he pushed them away. *Glorfindel spoke of conversation, but it would be nothing but a quarrel, that would take far more than an hour’s quiet talk to resolve. Better to say nothing.*

He was so distracted by his thoughts that he did not notice the elf coming to intercept him. “Legolas?”

It was the king. Legolas faltered, glancing at his company, preparing to ride. “Yes, Father?” In a rush, he decided to get through this as swiftly as possible. “I…am sorry there…was not time for us to talk. There is little time for leisure during times like these.”

In a voice as frigid as the ice in the winter mountains, Thranduil replied, “Yes, so I have seen. It seems we will have to wait until we meet again to reacquaint. Whenever that may be.”

Legolas nodded hurriedly. *Let this end, please…*

“Farewell, Legolas.” With a wordless bow, Legolas walked swiftly to his horse and mounted, meeting only Langcyll’s eyes. *How could my father expect me to be glad of meeting him after all he has done? Perhaps I should have…nay. My anger is still too great. It is his own fault.* The captain of Mirkwood gave the signal to move out, and the company rode away. Legolas did not look back.

***

Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, watched the company of Langcyll until they returned to the mountains and disappeared around a bend. He could not fathom what had passed in this one day. *He would not speak to me. My own son treated me as a complete stranger. I did make some mistakes in my raising of him, which I have long acknowledged, but I did nothing to deserve such ill treatment.*

With a sharp clap of his hands that made every one of his company jump, Thranduil snapped, “Ready the horses. We ride on for Rivendell.” This visit to the House of Elrond no longer held much interest to Thranduil. The beauty and peace of that elven haven, which he had viewed before as a much-needed change of scenery, would now serve only as a reminder of the shadow that wreaked havoc on his own realm, and its serenity and harmony would remind him only of the manner in which his youngest son had so carelessly dismissed him.

*This is the second time he has left me without so much as saying goodbye.*

 

 

*****  



	14. The Mirror of Galadriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

Six weeks later…

The dwarves of Lonely Mountain had reached their destination soon after leaving the elves, and prowled cautiously in the mines of Moria. “Not as many orcs as we’d feared,” remarked Sothi, as the group passed back out of the walls of Moria.

“Nay,” Naldin was greatly encouraged. “Let us go with all speed then, back to Lonely Mountain, and make our report to Balin. He’ll be very pleased.”

“Aye, he’ll probably want to start out straightaway, before any of us even have a chance to take a rest,” snorted Shaín.

“Why shouldn’t he?” demanded Sothi. “It’s good news we bring.”

“I for one will want to join that mission,” one of their other companions said.

“And I,” Naldin added, and Sothi and Sháin nodded in agreement. “Be glad, friends. Even if we’ve no time for resting, the day is coming soon when dwarves will rule the realm of Moria again. Come, let us return and give our glad tidings to Dáin and Balin.”

***

At the same time…

 

Legolas pulled back his bow and let arrow after arrow fly into the seemingly endless stream of orcs that poured over the hillside. The company was nearly out of the mountains, but the orcs were determined not to let them have an easy escape, and the company was forced into battles every night at dusk, that did not seem to end until the sun’s first rays sent the orcs running for cover. The company had made good time when it returned to the mountains at first, but now the orcs so impeded their progress that they scarcely covered any ground at night. So they were forced at times to travel by day as well, which wearied them and the horses still further.

*And Langcyll had hoped to reach Lothlórien within two weeks,* Legolas thought dismally.

The young warrior tossed his bow aside when the orcs drew too near, and snatched out both of his knives. The orcs charged on, and whirling to one side, Legolas flew into action, his arms sweeping with great precision to slash aside any fell beast that menaced him or his comrades. On his right, Langcyll was driving a sword against an assault of orc shields, and to his left, Faron and Galithil continued to shoot.

Still the orcs kept coming, and the elves were growing weary. That in itself was a sign of how strong the shadow was becoming, that it could send an endless onslaught of goblins great enough to wear down a company of seasoned elven warriors. The hills swarmed with them. Legolas was scraped, cut, and bruised in many places, and he feared in his exhaustion that he might make a fatal mistake.

It seemed both years and seconds since the sunset had been met with orc shrieks of challenge, but Legolas heard the foul beasts screeching in warning as the sky to the east began to lighten. At once, the orcs broke and ran, and the company was so weary that few of its members chased them. Legolas turned to face his companions, fearful of what he might see.

Elladan had taken a sword wound to the abdomen, and Elrohir was cradling his brother anxiously as Faron bandaged him. “It was not so serious as we feared; the bleeding has stopped. He shall be walking again in a few days.”

“A few days,” sighed Langcyll, pausing beside Legolas. “We may not have a few days, at this rate.”

Alarmed by such words, Legolas turned to Langcyll. His captain was bruised, bloodied, and very haggard-looking. This mission had been brutal to Legolas, and the young elf had overheard Langcyll and Glorfindel remarking that neither of them could remember a more difficult journey in their vast years of experience. *And they were both alive and fighting during the First and Second Age!* Legolas thought with a surge of despair.

Elunen had been gravely injured by an arrow six days before, and two of the company were always stationed to protect her, for she could not fight yet. Now Elladan would probably also be out of commission for at least two days, and Fanfirith could barely walk. “What do you mean to do, Langcyll?” Legolas asked without thinking.

Langcyll passed a hand over his eyes, blinking wearily. After more than two years, Legolas was already heartily weary of battles, bloodshed, and endless struggle for survival. He could not imagine how Langcyll must feel just then. The captain of Mirkwood murmured, “I will speak with Glorfindel. Our situation grows dire.”

The captain of Imladris was in little better spirits. Glorfindel was wounded by a slash to his right arm, but had continued to fight with the left. It was fortunate for him that even handicapped so, he was still more than a match for the orcs. *And even those with one arm to fight must still join in the defense,* Legolas thought with a sigh. *Will we ever see the end of this journey, or will the orcs take us all when our weariness grows too great.*

***

Langcyll walked over to Glorfindel and said, “It seems impossible that the orcs could keep up such an assault this close to Lórien.”

Nodding, the captain of Imladris replied, “But they have. And we will not hold out much longer without reinforcements.”

It was a bitter truth to swallow, but it could not be avoided any longer. The company was being worn down, and if they did not find rest and recovery soon, the orcs would have them all in some night battle. Langcyll sighed, “How much further is Lórien by the most direct route?”

“Even riding, we could not reach it by dusk, but perhaps by midnight if the horses could bear us that long, which is uncertain,” Glorfindel replied. “And that is assuming we fought no more battles.”

Weariness was winning them both over. Langcyll turned to his friend and said, “I fear for the sake of us all, the company must hunt no longer. Not that we have been in the usual sense of the word, for we have gone from hunters to prey. Let us ride then, as hard as the horses are able, and reach Lórien as soon as we can. If we do not get out of this great bog of shadow, we shall be dragged down.”

Glorfindel nodded grimly, “I fear you are right. Our situation is too desperate.”

The decision made, Langcyll shouted to his exhausted warriors, “Mount up, all of you. We are riding for Lórien with all possible speed. The company shall hunt no longer.” If he had had any doubts about the seriousness of their situation, the relief on the faces of all quashed it. There were no illusions. The company had to reach safety.

***

“Hold on, my beauty,” Elrohir whispered to his mare, who he could feel straining as she struggled to ride on. His horse was as weary as he was, but Ethuil was courageous as any warrior, and knew her duty to her rider.

To his right, Elladan was biting his lip against the pain as his horse’s every stride jostled him, jarring his stab wound. Elrohir felt a pang of immense anxiety for his brother; when he had first seen the injury, he had nearly fallen to the ground in despair, thinking Elladan was fatally wounded. Fortunately, they had managed to get the bleeding under control, but the injury remained a serious one, if no longer life-threatening.

The company had been riding for six hours, as fast as the horses could manage over these mountains. In the first hour of the day, they had covered more ground than they had managed in the past two weeks of attempted travel by night. It was bitter to acknowledge this defeat, that they could not continue to face the orcs. But Elrohir knew Glorfindel and Langcyll were correct; if they did not reach safety soon, it was likely that the entire company would be lost.

Movement to his left caught Elrohir’s eye. Legolas was riding on his other side, but there were no laughing taunts or talk of racing today. The prince, proving his skill and prowess as a warrior, had escaped major injuries during the past six weeks, but at a price. As most of his comrades had suffered wounds at one time or another during these recent cruel nights, Legolas had endeavored to take up the slack, and spent many days tending wounds or standing watch or scouting rather than sleeping.

Although elves could withstand a great deal of toil and injury, far more than men, the strain was telling on all of them. Now Legolas was swaying on his horse’s back, and his eyes were growing dim and glassy. “Legolas?” Elrohir hastily leaned over to touch the younger warrior’s arm, and felt his own head swim in response; he too, was beginning to falter under the stress of such prolonged fighting.

Legolas blinked, and shook his head hard to dispel the weakness. “I am well, Elrohir,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes. “But I am not so certain of Lanthir.” All the horses were beginning to slow with weariness. As the company approached a stream, Legolas took a deep breath and called, “Langcyll.” When the captain turned, the prince said candidly, “The horses must have water soon or they will not last.”

Looking at the creek, Langcyll nodded and called out, “We will stop here for ten minutes.”

*Only ten…* it was all Elrohir could do not to groan. Some of the others did.

When the warriors dismounted, many leaned against their horses as they drank, trying to find the strength to continue. Elrohir sat down next to Elladan, letting his wounded brother lean against him, and murmured, “We shall make it, brother. We shall.”

His jaw clenched with pain, Elladan replied, “Unless the orcs continue tonight as they have been. We shall not reach Lórien by dusk.”

Elrohir squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to suppress the despair that was beginning to rise within him. *I must keep strength, for his sake. For the sake of us all. We must not lose hope, or we will all be lost.*

***

The sun was sinking lower, even as the company rode faster through the decreasing hills, they could hear orc shrieks from the caves and shadows. *As soon as the sun is gone, they will be upon us,* Legolas thought, fighting the urge to groan.

Like a beacon for his hope and his sanity, Legolas found himself mentally reciting all the things his sister Limloeth and the rest of his family and friends had told him of Lórien. *It is autumn now. The wood shall be full of golden leaves, if what they say is true. And flowers bloom there even in the winter. We shall see the Nimrodel. Perhaps we shall see the Lady Galadriel.*

An orc screech from a pile of rocks not far away made Legolas flinch, but the sun was not yet down and the creatures could only taunt the company as they rode past. It made Legolas cringe with shame to realize he and his comrades were in fact fleeing the beasts of Mordor. *In the beginning, we had sought to drive them from these places. Now, they drive us back into our haven. Assuming we manage to reach it at all.*

Exhaustion came in terrible waves, making his body ache and his head swim. Worse still, his eyes were incredibly heavy, meaning that the strain of the past weeks had gone beyond simple irritating weariness, that he was endangering himself. Looking around with slightly bleary vision, Legolas could see that many of the other elves who had been so lucky--using the term loosely--to escape serious wounds were also swaying with exhaustion.

Darkness enveloped them once again, and Legolas sighed, reaching for his bow as a great shriek heralded the orc charge. “Ride through!” Langcyll bellowed from the back of the company. “Do not stop! Our only hope is to get within sight of Lórien!”

Legolas concentrated his efforts ahead of the company, and rode up to the front beside Glorfindel to shoot and clear a path in the masses of orcs for them to pass. Fortunately, adrenaline had kicked in again, and he managed to see well enough to aim. The horses were also finding new strength under duress, and the company raced over another hill. With a great gasp of relief, Legolas saw the tall trees of Lórien, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, rising like a great palace of gold in the distance. “We have it in our sights,” Glorfindel said, urging his mount on. “We shall reach it.”

To the astonishment of them all, the orcs still did not break off. *They must realize that we are weakened with weariness, and hope to take us down before we get there,* Legolas thought. It was true, more orcs were swarming out in front of them, trying to pull the elves from their frightened and tired horses.

Whinnying in fright, Lanthir slowed against the assault, for the orcs were as thick as bramble bushes, and Legolas felt despair sweep through him as he realized he was running out of arrows. *We are so close--* pulling out a sword he had taken from an orc several weeks before, Legolas began sweeping it furious at their heads, trying to drive them back. Lanthir pitched and neighed, kicking furiously at the creatures while trying not to unseat his rider.

Inevitably, Legolas’s diminished strength caused his balance to fail, and when Lanthir reared back to kick away two orcs before them, the young elf fell from the horse‘s back, landing hard upon the ground. “Legolas!” he heard someone cry.

Orcs screeched challenges all around, and Legolas staggered to his feet, drawing one of his knives and brandishing the sword in the other. Many of the other warriors were on the ground as well, and it was obvious that the company was making its last stand here. *By the Valar, they are all around us.*

Just as Legolas was beginning to accept the inevitability of his death, an orc screamed in pain from somewhere behind him, and arrows began zipping by that were not orcish make. He swept his knife into the skull of another creature that nearly blundered into him as it fled. Looking past the orcs, Legolas cried out with relief--more than two dozen horses were approaching, their riders armed with bows upon their backs, firing a fierce volley of arrows into the orc army. Given new strength by this rescue, Legolas fought on, cleaving the heads off two more orcs with one of their own swords. Turning, he raised a hand to the approaching warriors of Lórien, and did not see a fleeing orc fire one last arrow at him.

“Ah!” the arrow slammed into Legolas’s shoulder, throwing him several steps back. Staggering, he forced himself to stay upright and keep his sword ready, in case more orcs lingered. But exhaustion, and now this wound were getting the better of him, and the world was beginning to spin.

The riders galloped around him and the other warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood, and Legolas thought with great relief, *We are safe. They will get us within their borders now…* Sword and knife slid forgotten from his hands. There was a tremendous roaring in his ears, and the world was closing in with a blackness darker than night. Legolas felt his legs giving way, and sank toward the ground.

“Legolas!” someone dismounted near him. It was a feminine voice, and familiar, as Legolas felt someone catch him in their arms, easing him down. Forcing his last strength into focusing his eyes, the face of an elf warrioress swam into view over him, with the characteristic Mirkwood dark hair and unusual brown eyes wide with dismay. “Oh my brother!”

“Limloeth!” Legolas gasped with joy despite the pain, weariness, and worry for his comrades. He struggled with all his might to remain conscious. “It is you. Many of the others are also wounded, they need help--”

“Peace, lie still. I am here, my little brother. I am here. We saw your danger. All your company are being seen to.” The rest of Legolas’s senses were failing him, but he felt his sister’s arms tightly around him, comforting him as she had when he was a child, despite the arrow in his shoulder. “Let go, Legolas. You and your party are safe. Rest now. I am with you.”

But Legolas knew, even in his muzzy state, that it had been a close call, and his mind did not wish to let him sleep until he knew the fate of his comrades. *There were so many orcs. There will have been more injuries, perhaps worse. I must know…* He could not sleep when they were not yet under the protection of Lórien.

*Legolas…*

Legolas gasped, hearing another familiar voice. But it was not spoken from anyone around him. Was it possible?! That the stories he had heard from friends who had traveled to Lórien were true?! Surely not. It must be his imagination, or his weary mind playing tricks on him. He struggled weakly against Limloeth‘s efforts to make him remain still, “Legolas? What is it? It is all right, just rest.”

Legolas tried to ask his sister again about the rest of his company, but his voice was failing him. Then in his mind came the other voice again, *Legolas. Your company is safe, and you are among friends. You shall be with us soon.*

Trembling with exhaustion, pain, and now joy, Legolas knew in his heart who was speaking to him. He could not have refused her if he had desired too, but the gentle, beautiful voice gave all the reassurance he needed. With a sigh of intense relief, Legolas sank back in his sister’s warm arms, closed his eyes, and let his body go limp. As consciousness and pain flowed out of him, like water from a broken vessel, he heard in his mind, *Rest, prince of Mirkwood. You are under our protection now.*

***

Haldir of Lórien was greatly troubled. They had seen the peril of the war party riding towards the borders of Lórien, but had not mustered to ride to their aid until it dawned on the warriors that the company was in serious trouble. Haldir’s warriors had managed to chase the orcs off, with more effort than they would have expected, and the warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood had practically dropped on the spot once they were in the clear.

*We arrived only in the nick of time,* the Lórien elf thought grimly, as the wounded warriors were born away and the rest rode into Lórien with Haldir’s people.

He took the company well within Lórien’s borders, not that such a thing was very necessary, since orcs had yet to challenge Galadriel’s realm, but the strength of Lórien would serve the exhausted elves better the further inside they were. Once the outside plains were out of sight, Haldir called a halt for the night. Many of the northern warriors were too exhausted or wounded to climb into the trees (*even the Mirkwood elves. That is unthinkable!*) so the group made camp upon the ground.

Haldir took a mental count of the newcomers. The captains, Langcyll of Mirkwood and Glorfindel of Imladris, had managed to keep their feet and ride into Lórien, but once there, both had collapsed. Glorfindel had suffered a deep knife wound to the arm, and was under the care of a healer. Mirkwood’s Elunen, Fanfirith, and Glanaur were also badly hurt, along with both of the sons of Elrond of Imladris. Elladan had a day-old stab wound to the side, and Elrohir had been badly cut while defending him. Prince Legolas of Mirkwood had taken an arrow just below the collarbone. Most of the new arrivals now lay asleep--with their eyes closed.

One of Haldir’s warriors was the prince’s sister, Limloeth. Haldir walked up to where she was watching her brother being treated, “How is he?”

Rising, her eyes troubled, the Sindarin princess replied, “I hardly recognized him. He is terribly exhausted, and there are many recent minor wounds upon him, and the healing marks of old ones.” Looking grimly at Haldir, she said, “We nearly did not reach them in time.”

There was a slight rebuke in her voice that Haldir accepted; Limloeth had wanted to ride out at once to meet the company, but it was Haldir who had tarried. Nodding to her, he said quietly, “Stay here with Legolas. We shall keep the watch.”

Gratefully nodding, Limloeth knelt down beside her sleeping brother and gently took his hand. His wounded shoulder had been bandaged, and she drew a blanket over him. “So much has happened,” she murmured. “It seems far longer than just two years.” She was not speaking to Haldir, so the warrior of Lórien left her to sit with Legolas, whose eyes were also closed.

Haldir’s brother Rúmil joined him after assessing all the injuries. “It was very bad, Haldir. Six of the eleven from Imladris and Mirkwood sustained serious injuries, and those who did not have dropped from exhaustion. Three of our number were also wounded. The party we sent to pursue the orcs are returning.”

“No doubt they shall have more news of the orcs,” Haldir replied, as more horses rode up to them.

The captain of this group was Orthelian, one of the most renowned archers of Lórien. “Haldir,” Orthelian said with a worried frown. “The orcs attacked us almost as soon as we came beyond Lórien’s borders. We drove them back swiftly, but their boldness was unexpected.”

Haldir felt a great desire to curse. “Why is this happening?” he muttered, tense and worried. “How can this shadow be so strong that orcs would wear down an elven war party? How long before they try to enter the borders of Lórien?”

“Surely that would be impossible,” Orthelian murmured, the horror of such a thought coloring his voice.

With a sweeping gesture, Haldir indicated the wounded, exhausted warriors on the ground. “Until today, I would have thought this was. Now I fear that naught is impossible.”

***

Haldir ordered his company and the party of Orthelian to remain where they were until Langcyll and Glorfindel’s warriors were sufficiently recovered. It took until the morning--two days later--for the eyes of all the elves to open again. Legolas was the last to open his eyes, and probably would have slept longer had he not been roused by Limloeth’s cry of excited relief.

“Where am I?”

Limloeth’s relief was so intense, her throat tightened. “You are in Lórien, my brother. Do you remember?”

Blinking, Legolas felt the bandages on his shoulder and looked up at the golden canopy above him, “Lórien.” He sighed and smiled at her. “How long have I slept?”

Dashing tears from her eyes, Limloeth grinned, “Nearly two full days. Ah-ah,” she caught him when he would have sat bolt upright, “easy, Legolas. Most of the others have only just awakened as well. And your eyes were closed until just a few minutes ago.”

She grimaced at her brother’s expression of alarm and doubt. He looked about him, seeing that she had spoken the truth; only a few of his company were actually on their feet. Legolas was definitely still weary, for after establishing that fact, he made no further effort to rise. With a sigh, he murmured, “How I have missed you, Lim.”

Limloeth smiled, stroking back his hair as she had when he was little. “So much has happened. I was frightened when I saw you.” And he still looked ill; shadows still remained beneath his eyes, and his skin was so pale that many bruises stood out in bold relief. She cupped her hand on his cheek, “I knew you would get into trouble.”

Legolas laughed weakly, “May I remind you, Sister, that it was you who urged me so to join a war party?”

“I did not mean this one!” she exclaimed, and he chuckled again.

Many of the other warriors were moving now as well, and Legolas looked around. “May I get up now?” he asked, a pleading note in his voice.

Limloeth sighed, knowing her brother well despite the changes of two years. “I suppose if I said no you would simply try it when my back was turned. Very well. Slowly,” she cautioned him. “You are still weak from your wound, and even two days’ sleep cannot make up for the strain you were under. Take care.”

With a nod, Legolas slowly sat up and got carefully to his feet, accepting her hand to rise but able to stand on his own moments later. Haldir came over then, bowing. “Well met, Legolas of Mirkwood. You seem to be improving.”

Bowing in return, Legolas replied, “You have my thanks, Haldir of Lórien. I suspect our captains have already told you that we all owe you our lives.”

“Indeed they have,” Haldir said with a knowing smile. “And I have already reminded them and several others that there are no life debts among warriors--as you are well aware.” Legolas smiled back. Haldir went on, “In answer to the question you are about to ask, there were no life-threatening injuries among your company, though you would all do well to remain in Lórien until your strength and spirit are revived.”

Legolas glanced in the direction of Langcyll, who was also standing but moving as though his ribs pained him. Glorfindel’s bandaged arm was in a sling. “I know not what my captains intended, but I do not doubt they will heed your advice.”

Another company of elves rode up just then, bearing the flag of Galadriel. Their leader conferred briefly with Haldir, who then spoke to Langcyll and Glorfindel. After several moments of discussion between them and several of the other members of Legolas’s company, Langcyll announced, “Those of us who can ride shall return to Caras Galadhon with the guard of Lady Galadriel. The rest of the company shall join them when you are able.”

The honor guard of Lórien elves moved aside to make room for those elves of the company who would be riding with them. Legolas felt a thrill of excitement at the prospect of seeing the city of Galadriel and Celeborn. He noticed Limloeth grinning at him and knew that it must be showing on his face. He was grateful to be able to ride.

However, as he found Lanthir, who to his relief had not been wounded, Legolas realized with dismay that few of his comrades were well enough yet. Faron was fortunately recovered enough from a knife wound to ride, as well as Nathron, Galithil, Langcyll, and Glorfindel, but Elladan, Elrohir, Elunen, Fanfirith, and Glanaur were still in serious condition. He and the others were preparing their horses when Glorfindel said to Langcyll, “Perhaps we should remain behind while the others recover. It is fitting for us as their captains to stay with our wounded.”

Legolas was not the only one dismayed by this; Faron and the others also protested. Langcyll and Glorfindel considered their wounded warriors and the healthy (or reasonably healthy) ones, then Langcyll decided, “Glorfindel is right. We shall remain behind,” he informed the honor guard.

Feeling a deep desire to see more of the Golden Wood, Legolas felt torn, for he also disliked the idea of riding away without more than half of the company. “Perhaps…” he said slowly, reluctantly, “we should all wait until we are all well enough to travel.”

Glorfindel grinned at Legolas, “Come, Legolas, surely you want to see Caras Galadhon now that the more pressing concerns are passed. We are all well.”

“But should we be separated thus?” Legolas asked doubtfully.

The two captains exchanged looks, then Glorfindel said something to Langcyll in a low voice, and Langcyll laughed in return. “Nay, go, Legolas,” he chuckled, waving his arm at the young warrior. “You have not seen Lórien before, and even the weeks that we shall be here will not grant time enough to satisfy any, so take advantage of your fitness. The rest of the company shall join the four of you in the city in a few days. Go, be off with you.”

*They know me far too well,* Legolas thought with more amusement than resentment, and mounted Lanthir. With a parting nod to the captains and the remaining warriors, he rode off with the guard.

***

The captains of the company watched their only four fit warriors ride away with the guard and warriors of Lórien. Langcyll chuckled, “You are right, Glorfindel, we could not deprive the young ones by delaying their first view of Caras Galadhon.”

The wood around them was more peaceful, if that were possible, now that many of the warriors had gone save those who were remaining with the wounded. Glorfindel smiled as he gazed about him, “Still, there is no reason why we cannot see a little of our nearer surroundings. If memory serves, the Nimrodel passes less than two miles south of where we are.”

“Your memory does serve,” Orophin, Haldir’s brother, told them. “Walk directly south and slightly inwards to the woods, and you shall find her.”

“Ah, my heart would be glad to hear Nimrodel again,” Langcyll sighed, feeling better already under Lórien’s canopy.

“Shall we take a short walk?” Glorfindel asked, gesturing in the direction Orophin had pointed them.

“I think our company will spare us. You will look after them, Orophin?” Langcyll asked.

“Rest assured. Go, let the voice of Nimrodel clear all worries from you,” the Lórien warrior said.

Glancing down at his still-wounded warriors, Langcyll sighed, frowning, “I fear until we are all recovered, such a thing would be beyond even Nimrodel’s power. But I shall try.” He followed Glorfindel into the wood.

Before long, they heard the musical flowing of the legendary river. Both captains had been about Middle Earth many thousands of years, and had seen and heard many wonders. But the sound of Nimrodel would never fail to strike awe into all who heard it, no matter how many times any elf passed through Lórien.

When Langcyll and Glorfindel reached the banks of Nimrodel, they walked along it for a ways, at times stooping to let the clear water flow over their hands or to bathe their faces. It seemed to Langcyll that if Nimrodel did not have the power to wash all troubles away, she at least made them easier to bear, for he felt stronger. He looked over at Glorfindel and saw the captain of Imladris staring at him with a very grave expression. “I hope that Nimrodel’s power does ease worries, for now a difficult conversation must be had, Langcyll.”

With a sigh, Langcyll nodded, turning to face his friend. “I fear you are right. We have taken some careless risks over this journey, and made assumptions that put the company in danger--”

Glorfindel interrupted him with a shake of his head, “That is not what I was referring to. Though truly, we did underestimate the degree to which the creatures of Mordor have multiplied, and the drought, but such things are inevitable hazards of war expeditions.”

“But we should have prepared better,” Langcyll said, grimacing at the memory of all the company had been through. “More caution might have avoided many of our number being wounded.”

The musical sound of Nimrodel beside them did little to ease the memories of those last brutal weeks of the journey for either captain. But Glorfindel went on, “You are one of the finest captains in Middle Earth, Langcyll. You would take too much upon yourself to anticipate every complication that might arise in a long journey such as this, in such uncertain times. Even Gil-Galad was not so perfect.”

Langcyll laughed. “Your faith in me is touching, warrior of Imladris. If not the mission, then, what troubles you?”

Glorfindel fixed him with a penetrating gaze. “I speak of Legolas.”

Stiffening, Langcyll felt himself harden inside, “We have had this conversation before, Glorfindel. I see no need to have it again.” Using all the authority and strength of his experience to harden his voice, he turned and began walking back along the riverbank, hoping to close the matter.

The reaction of Glorfindel caught him completely off-guard. “Langcyll, you are being a fool!” Langcyll turned in astonishment, and Glorfindel advanced, his blue-gray eyes flashing with frustration. “There was not time to say this when I first wished to back on the plains, so I will say it now. You have been a strong and wise captain for many years, warrior of Mirkwood, and I have never known you to lose your good sense until now.”

Shocked and defensively, Langcyll exclaimed, “Nay, it is you who have lost your good sense! You are exaggerating the situation to ridiculous proportions--”

“Exaggerating?! Affection for the youngest of your warriors is one thing, Langcyll, I have known it myself. But when you instigate a feud between a prince and a king, you have crossed the line.”

“What are you talking of?” Langcyll demanded furiously. “I instigated nothing; the ill-feelings between Legolas and his father existed long before he departed Mirkwood.”

“Indeed?” Glorfindel said with mock-incredulity. “From what I saw, Prince Legolas was closer to King Thranduil than any of his elder siblings.”

“You saw very little, Glorfindel, and even now, you do not know him.”

“And you do?”

“I was his novice master from the time he was fifty years old, so I think I may claim to know him well.”

“Better than his father, even?” Langcyll was about to snap that it was so, but saw Glorfindel’s aim, and instead pursed his lips. The Imladris Lord sighed, closing his eyes, “Perhaps you do know Legolas better than his father, my friend. But that does not give you the right to interfere with their affairs.”

“I was not interfering!” Langcyll snapped, angry now. “Legolas did not wish to speak to Thranduil.”

“And looking for an excuse to avoid the king. An excuse you were all too willing to supply him.”

“I did no--” Langcyll faltered. Glaring at Glorfindel, he said, “I would not permit anyone, even Thranduil, to trouble one of my warriors.”

“Do not take me for a fool, Langcyll,” Glorfindel retorted. “You are either lying to me or deceiving yourself. It has been a long time since you thought of Legolas only as one of your warriors.” His eyes and tone softening, he said urgently, “You have gone from merely protective to possessive of him, kinsman, and you risk a feud with the king.”

In disbelief, Langcyll protested, “Thranduil would not dispute me for giving legitimate orders.”

“Nay, but he could see well enough that Legolas was avoiding him. I doubt even that he realized there was an ulterior motive to your actions, but that will only lead to his wrath descending upon Legolas when at last they meet again. See now what your ill-considered actions may lead to?”

The solemn, quiet words struck the captain of Mirkwood with the force of an arrow hit. Glorfindel’s eyes were sad. “At first, I could not understand why a warrior so brave as Legolas could still harbor such fear of his father.”

Langcyll sighed, dropping his gaze. “In spite of all I know of them both, I know not the answer.” Looking up, he added, “But that is all the more reason to--”

“--All the more reason to stand aside and force Legolas to confront the king, just as a warrior must confront and overcome all his other fears! Had you been thinking rationally on the subject, you would have seen that. But you were not.” Shaking his head in despair, Glorfindel looked his fellow captain in the eye, “Interfering with the relations between father and son is foolish and out of place in any case, Langcyll. But when the father and son are the King and Prince of Mirkwood…it is a dangerous game you play. He is not your son, Langcyll. And even if he were, you cannot fight his battles for him. Remember how he came to be among your company in the first place?”

Langcyll turned away, feeling despair sweep over him, a black mockery of the sweet flow of Nimrodel. He wished he did not place such a value in rational thought, for then he might be able to evade the bitter truth of Glorfindel’s words. He looked at the clear, bubbling water. “Legolas confronted the king once. He shall find the strength to do it again.”

“Nay, Langcyll. You know as well as I that what passed between them was no confrontation. Legolas ran away.”

“I have done him more harm than good by allowing him to avoid the king. Now it has only worsened what must eventually pass between them.”

“Do not try to make up for it,” Glorfindel put a hand on Langcyll’s shoulder, “You cannot protect him any longer. You are only his captain. It is neither your place nor your right.” He paused, then sensed Langcyll’s acceptance. With a wry smile, he remarked, “The past nearly repeated itself. I wonder what it is that inspires such protectiveness toward Legolas among his elders.”

Without looking away from the water, Langcyll replied, “It was not always so. Early on, it was as you said, only an affection for my youngest warrior. But then Tathar perished so suddenly, and Legolas mourned so that I was afraid…”

“As well you should have been; I have seen the power of grief. And you served him well then. But now that danger is over, and you must return to being only his captain and friend.”

Langcyll sighed, “He was born into a time filled with shadow. When he was a child, his mother. Then his dearest friend only a few months ago. Fate has been cruel to him.”

“Fate is cruel to all born into such times, my friend, but we both know they’ve no choice in the matter. Legolas must face darkness on his own just as surely as we did when shadows last threatened our world. And we will again. All of us. I believe, and I think you’ll agree, that Legolas was born for a great destiny, for fate does not grant so many gifts by accident. We shall not serve him well by holding him back.”

Langcyll shook his head and laughed ruefully. “You have the advantage of me, Glorfindel of Imladris.”

“Then we are agreed?”

“We are. I will not step outside the bounds of my duty as captain again. You have my word,” Langcyll grinned. “And the victory of the argument.”

Glorfindel laughed in turn, clapping his friend on the shoulder, “Of course, my friend, what would you expect the outcome of an argument between Imladris and Mirkwood to be?”

“Hah. Words are right and good, Imladris, but must I remind you that we are warriors? And that a certain young warrior of whom we were just speaking is unequaled by any warrior that your forces have managed to put up?”

“That was two years ago.”

“Shall we bid him and Faron have a contest now? Whom do you suppose would be the winner?”

“Faron, of course.”

“Now who is deceiving himself?”

***

“I cannot decide if you have changed completely or not at all,” Limloeth remarked, pulling her mount up beside Legolas.

The son of Thranduil regarded his sister thoughtfully. “I know not for myself, but I think you have changed very little. So,” Legolas smiled slyly. “Why now do you wear Lórien colors?”

Limloeth blushed and grinned, looking at the warrior escorts ahead of them. As if sensing her gaze, one of them turned his head and guided his horse back to them. “I have not yet made a proper greeting to you, Legolas of Mirkwood.”

With a broader smile, Legolas replied, “I do not think you need be formal with me…Brother.”

Orthelian of Lórien grinned first at Legolas, then at his wife, Limloeth. “My lady and I were very sorry that you had not yet reached Lórien when we were ready to wed. We both desired your presence.”

“Ah, I am sorry I was not there,” Legolas answered sadly. “But all the same, you know my heart was with you both. And now you have my felicitations in person at last, though we nearly did not live to see Lórien.”

As the horses continued beneath the golden trees, Limloeth shuddered. “There have been times, brother, when the world seemed so dark and dismal that I have been certain you were lost. With every message from the war parties, I felt my heart shake with terror.”

Legolas reached out and gripped his sister’s hand, “Be not distressed, Lim. I am here now, and alive, more or less,” he grinned. “And now is a time for happy news. Tell me, there must be some from Mirkwood.”

The company rode deeper into Lórien as Limloeth regaled Legolas with all that she could think of since his departure. “I do not know what tidings you have had of Father since you left.”

“Enough.”

“Well, then I shall spare you the ill news of the past three years,” Limloeth grimaced, and Legolas had no doubt as to her reason for choosing to reside in Lórien with her new husband rather than in Mirkwood. But surely there had to be some good news. In her typical mischievous fashion, Limloeth drawled, “I’m sure you shall be devastated to hear that Eregolf elected to leave Lórien and become Crown Prince of Lindon. You shall not have the joy of his and Princess Lalven’s company during your stay here.”

“Ai! My heart bleeds at the deprivation!”

They both laughed, and Limloeth went on. “Belhador has started his last century of healer training, and Eirien has attained her mastery. Oh, and…the last message from Mirkwood came only yesterday…announcing that the Crown Princess is with child.”

The other warriors listening around them gasped and exclaimed at this happy news, and Legolas shouted in delight. “Eirien?! And Berensul?! When?”

“The baby is expected in the spring.”

“Aah!” Legolas laughed aloud, gazing up at the birds flitting among the branches. “I suppose if we started now, we might reach home by then.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Berensul and Eirien. It does not seem possible.”

“Whyever not?” Galithil laughed from behind him. “They have been married for over a thousand years!”

“I suppose,” Legolas answered, still amazed. “It seems simply shocking to think of my brother as a father.”

“Compared to our parents, they waited for quite a long time,” Limloeth reminded him. Legolas winced involuntarily at the reference to Thranduil. He wondered if Limloeth knew what had happened on the plains, and forced himself to look at her face. She did not know, but her perceptive eyes saw at once that all was not well with him.

***

Legolas had always considered his father’s palace (the outer part, anyway) to be a grand and beautiful creation, but its beauty paled to him now that he beheld Caras Galadhon, the City of Trees. Great tree-stairs wound high into golden branches, and as the sun had set once again, silver lamps adorned all the trees and flets with clear, bluish-white light. The pavilions and stairs were more open than those in Mirkwood, and Legolas could clearly see the elves who lived in the dwellings in this city, many gazing down at the newcomers with curious but friendly eyes.

The riders and guard dismounted, and Legolas heard the sweet winding of a horn announcing their arrival. Before them was the greatest tree Legolas had seen yet. It was not the largest tree the prince of Mirkwood had ever beheld, but its smooth gray bole was perfect and flawless, its graceful higher branches feathered with golden leaves, and for this, Legolas mentally pronounced it the most beautiful tree in Middle Earth.

Haldir turned to the warriors of Mirkwood and Imladris, “Here dwell Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. You are to follow me, for they wish to see you all.”

The remaining warriors of Lórien, including Limloeth and Orthelian, took their leave of Legolas, Galithil, Faron, and Nathron, with the promise of seeing them later. Many years in his father’s court had taught Legolas the courtesies of meeting any elven noble, but on this occasion, he found he was as tense as a callow youth at his first coming of age. Nonetheless, he was also filled with curiosity and eagerness to behold Lady Galadriel again, so he followed Haldir up the stairs.

It was not a hard climb for wood elves, though Legolas and the others did find they were still weary from the struggle of the past weeks. But before long, Haldir led them onto the great talan on which stood the dwelling of Celeborn and Galadriel. It seemed a great, open pavilion, with pale curtains pulled back that might be drawn down to enclose it at will. The four were brought into the pavilion, and found Celeborn and Galadriel, standing with all the power and splendor that Legolas remembered, awaiting them.

“Welcome, warriors of Mirkwood and Imladris,” said Lord Celeborn.

Nathron, the ranking warrior in the group, stepped forward and bowed to them both, then the other three bowed. Haldir spoke, “Seven of their company remained too wounded to travel, my lord. They shall join these as soon as they are able.”

The dazzling, penetrating eyes of Galadriel gazed upon each of the four in turn, and Legolas felt his heart skip just as it had when she looked at him during the Trial three years before. Lowering her eyes, she said, “It grieves me to know how the danger to our kindred has grown without their borders in such short time. The shadow under threat grows and menaces free people still more.”

Celeborn nodded gravely. “Much blood has been spilt, and the lives of many of our kindred lost.”

Legolas felt a stab of inner pain, as he always did on hearing the mention of death. But then Galadriel’s words troubled him still more. “Many more shall be lost, before this shadow is dispelled. A great many changes shall soon come upon the world, and the lives of countless thousands will soon rest upon the courage of a few. A time of great sorrow, fear, and doubt dawns soon, when the future of us all shall hang in the balance.” Her gaze briefly touched Legolas again.

His attention was restored to their words when Celeborn said, “But now time must be taken for all your company to be restored. When all have arrived here, we shall speak again. Then when all are ready, the warriors of Lórien shall join the warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood, and you shall ride against the shadow once again. For hope remains, that our realms and the surrounding lands may be protected from the plague of shadow.”

Galadriel nodded. “You shall remain here in Caras Galadhon, and rest until all your company have recovered their health and strength. Go now, and sleep in peace tonight.”

Even as she spoke, Legolas saw her eyes move to rest upon him, and in his mind, he heard, *Welcome, son of Thranduil. Much darkness you have seen since your coming of age, but your battle has not yet begun…*

***

Limloeth and Orthelian were waiting for Legolas when he and the others returned to the ground. Orthelian said, “If it please you, brother Legolas, come and sleep in our dwelling. We‘ve much to talk about.”

“I…” Legolas paused, glancing at his comrades, but it was Galithil who waved at him dismissively.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Legolas, go. You’ve not seen your sister in three years; none of us would begrudge you this time,” she told him with a snort at his hesitation.

It took little convincing. Legolas grinned at them, “Very well. Will I see all of you tomorrow?”

Haldir stepped forward, “We’ve rooms and beds for all your company, there above the brook.”

“Beds? I seem to recall sleeping in one of those once, a VERY long time ago,” Faron remarked, and the friends laughed.

Smiling slightly, Haldir went on, “Lady Limloeth’s dwelling is only a few trees apart. Go with your kin, and the rest, let us away.”

Waving merrily at each other, Legolas and his company separated, and he walked with Limloeth and Orthelian up to where they had made their home. Midway up the trunk of the silver tree was a handsome dwelling fitting for an elven princess or a warrior captain. Legolas followed Limloeth inside, and Orthelian drew closed the white curtains and thin panels of silver wood to make the open-walled structure more like a human house.

“Are you happy here, Lim?” he asked his sister without thinking.

The light in Limloeth’s eyes was all the answer he needed. She smiled broadly and grasped both of his hands. “I am, Brother. Look around, would you not be?”

Legolas pulled back the panel and curtain from one wall and gazed out at the shimmering beauty of Lothlórien. He sighed. *Of course, she is happy. Who would not be happy to live in this place all their life, especially after Mirkwood. How is it that the spiders and foul creatures of Mordor have penetrated so deeply into our realm, but the realm of Galadriel remains stainless and secure? Is she so much more powerful than my father. Ah, that is a ridiculous question, for I know the answer.* He felt a pang of some unpleasant emotions as these thoughts inevitably brought King Thranduil into his mind again.

Walking up to look out into the woods next to him, Limloeth asked softly, “What troubles you, Legolas?”

There was a long silence, broken only by the whisper of the wind in the leaves. Legolas both desired and feared telling her of his encounter with their father on the plains, but found neither possible because his ability to speak seemed to have vanished. But Limloeth did not desist, so he forced his voice to say, “I have seen our father.”

The lady of Mirkwood and Lórien turned away from the woods and stared at him, her brown eyes wide. “When?” she whispered.

“Six weeks ago,” Legolas murmured.

He still could not meet her eyes, but heard her intake of breath. “What happened?”

Taking a deep breath, Legolas faced her and said tonelessly, “We saw his company attacked on the plains below the mountains and rode against the orcs. I…there were injuries to both companies and there was little time to speak.” Seeing her expression, he admitted, “I did not want to speak to him.”

Limloeth nodded, and there was no accusation in her, for him or for their father. “You heard of the events in Mirkwood and Lonely Mountain the year after you left?”

“Yes.”

The hesitant way Limloeth eyed him told Legolas that she knew more of those events, but was reluctant to tell him. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she said quietly, “I think it would have been better for us all if he had erupted after you left. But he did not. Angry though I am, I pity our father as well, Legolas.” She looked at his face and sighed, “You were the last, and he knew you would have to go, but still he refused to see it. After Mother died, with the rest of us grown, you were all he had left of her, at least in his mind.”

Silence grew heavy between them. At last, Legolas told her, “When I came of age…and wanted to join the war parties, he said he would not lose me as well.”

He had to look away then, and felt her hand on his shoulder. “Naught of what happened in Mirkwood is your fault, Legolas. Naught that happened to him and naught that he did. You had a right to determine your own destiny, as much as anyone can, in any case.”

“Lim…what did he say? When he learned I had gone?”

It was Limloeth’s turn to look away, and she stared out into the forest again. “Nothing. It was not spite, Brother. He could not speak of you at all for months, and then only in passing. His heart was broken as though you had died.”

Legolas flinched involuntarily, and Limloeth looked at him. In a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “I had just returned to Lórien with Orthelian after we wed when word came of Tathar.” Legolas cringed harder, still feeling physical pain at the mention of it. But his sister could speak to him of things that others could not. Gripping his shoulders tightly, Limloeth said, “How I wept, Legolas, as much for you as for him. And I was afraid for you.”

Swallowing hard--several times--Legolas got enough of his voice back to say, “I survived. I owed it to him to carry on.”

“And Father will survive. For you are not dead, and whatever passed between you--or did not pass--he will realize that in time. And he will be grateful. I know that much.”

***

Legolas, as astonished as Faron at the shock of having a bed again, fell asleep almost as soon as he lay down, and slept deeply, leaving the wall across from him open so he might see the forest when he awoke. It was very late, and the moon directly overhead, when something woke him prematurely. Legolas raised his head from the pillow and looked out into the dark woods in confusion. As he saw a light approaching from the nearby trees, his heart all but stopped.

It was Galadriel, walking across the branches with all the ease of a human strolling along a path. She needed no reaching or jumping to reach the next ones, for they bent and moved to allow her an easy path to walk. Legolas stared, amazed. It was not entirely unheard of, all living things were friends of the elves, and trees always favored the passage of the wood-elves especially. Legolas himself was often aware of branches moving slightly beneath him to ease his passage. But for them to move thus…Galadriel’s power was astonishing.

At first, the Lady seemed to simply be walking among the trees, gazing into the forest. Her flowing golden hair and shimmering white gown caught on none of the branches or leaves as she walked effortlessly from limb to limb, seemingly deep in thought.

All at once--just as Legolas felt his heart returning to its normal rate--she raised her eyes to meet his. Legolas blinked, and Galadriel beckoned to him. He rose swiftly, and though the trees did not reach out for him as they did for her, he had little trouble meeting her on the tree between them, and followed her to the ground. She led him down the hill of Caras Galadhon, down a long flight of stone steps to an enclosed garden, in a gap in the trees that opened to the stars and sky above. Legolas beheld a rippling stream that flowed down into a green hollow at the base of a tree, and a low pedestal, which held a shallow, wide silver basin with a silver ewer beside it. His breath caught.

Galadriel stopped beside the pedestal, and turned to face him. “You know what this is?” she asked him softly.

“I have heard tales of the Mirror of Galadriel,” Legolas murmured, awestruck. “But I know not why I would be deserving to see this place.”

“And will you look into the Mirror?” she asked. Legolas hesitated, his mind racing with all the rumors he had heard: some intriguing, some frightening. “Are you afraid?”

Forcing himself to look at her face, Legolas said, “I know not what it shows.”

Lifting the ewer and carrying it to the base of the stream, Galadriel smiled. “The Mirror shows many things, my kinsman. Things that were, things that are, and things that yet may be. Many things I can command the Mirror to reveal, but tonight I shall leave it free to work. What you will see, I cannot tell.” Filling the ewer and carrying it back to the Mirror, she poured the water into the basin until it was full to the brim. “Do you wish to look?”

Swallowing hard, Legolas nodded, and Galadriel stepped back, beckoning him forward. The young elf walked up to the pedestal and stared at the moon and stars reflected in the water. Suddenly, the Mirror grew gray, then clear, and Legolas saw a face reflected in it, that for a moment, seemed to be his own. But it was not; it was a fair-haired elf lady, wearing the crown of Mirkwood. “Mother!” Legolas whispered.

Queen Minuial looked just as Legolas remembered her. His mother seemed to be looking at something beyond Legolas’s sight, and as he watched, her face was suddenly illuminated by threatening red light, like the light of a blazing fire, and horror filled her beautiful features. Legolas gasped aloud as she raised her hands to ward off the heat, then the light faded, and he was watching a great landslide of rocks sweeping down a mountain onto a group of elven warriors on horseback. Galadriel closed her eyes as Legolas choked back a sob of anguish.

The light faded again, and in the Mirror appeared dark woods that Legolas immediately recognized as Mirkwood, fraught with darkness and lurking with evil beasts. Many swift scenes followed, none so horrifying as the first two, but confusing. Legolas saw his father, in one of the outer halls of his palace, wearing some unreadable and rather foreboding expression, advancing forward in a menacing manner. Then nine riders, cloaked in black upon black mounts, sweeping along a dark road with an air of menace and dread about them. A green, hilled landscape covered with grass that rippled peacefully in the breeze. Small figures, dwarves or perhaps hobbits, moving with the frightened stealth of ones hunted. A towering white fortress. Men at arms riding into battle with orcs. A great mountain spewing fire, and armies of foul creatures pouring across free lands, chasing fleeing people. Fleeting images of faces, of folk many races, but none that he recognized. A horse, riding fast with two riders, one tall and another short behind, silhouetted against the sun. Darkness, smoke, fire, blood, death. And then a great structure, half-built, that was not yet complete but did not resemble any building Legolas had ever seen. It appeared to be a ship.

Then at last the Mirror went dark again, and the moon and stars returned. With a great gasp, Legolas realized that he had been holding his breath. Stepping back from the Mirror, feeling distinctly weak, he asked, “Why did you show me this? I understood none of it.”

“Nay, and you shall not, for a time,” the Lady Galadriel told him. “Many things must first come to pass, before the things you saw. And you yourself must find a way to bring it about.”

In disbelief, Legolas whispered, “But what the Mirror showed…destruction. Why must it be brought about?”

“The darkness comes, Legolas of Mirkwood, whether we fight it or no,” said Galadriel. “But of all of us, you alone may be able to defeat it.”

The idea seemed unthinkable, and Legolas could only stare at the Lady. *I am not the best of the elven warriors, and certainly I am no great captain or leader. I am but the youngest son of a flawed king. How could I…*

In his mind, Galadriel answered him. *The fate of all of Middle Earth shall be bound to the strength of a few. And the failure of the few will lead to the destruction of all.*

“You speak in riddles, Lady,” Legolas said aloud, feeling more lost than ever.

The faint curve of a smile came to Galadriel’s lips. “Before it has come to pass, Legolas, the future in itself is a riddle. But you must serve your part in it, or all will fail, just as a chain fails when but one link is broken. You must find your way, for many quests that lie ahead of you…but you must first face your deepest, and closest fear.”

Legolas stared at her. The Lady’s eyes pierced his heart, and she said, “You know of what I speak, son of Thranduil.” He flinched at the reference, and she nodded. “There must be a peace between you, or all will be lost. For you…and everyone.”

“I do not understand.”

Galadriel walked closer to him and gazed into his eyes. “You bear the burden of a great destiny, Legolas. Your fate is bound to the fate of Middle Earth, and if you do not endure, all will be destroyed.” She smiled then, “Courage comes in many forms, elf warrior. As long as your hope survives, you shall find the strength. For all of your battles.”

*****

 

NEW (AND OLD) CHARACTERS

Limloeth: Legolas’s older sister, second child of King Thranduil  
Orthelian: a warrior captain from Lórien, Limloeth’s husband  
Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin: Duuuhh! ;-)  



	15. Shadows in the Golden Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

Rúmil of Lórien was standing watch on the borders of the forest just before dawn, when his keen elven eyes spotted movement atop a far ridge. Many dark figures were stealthily creeping through the hills, watching the edge of the woods, but coming no closer. “Orcs,” Rúmil murmured.

*How very strange,* he thought. Orcs were not renowned for their intelligence or common sense, and they had a tendency to attack in the exact same manner over and over again, making it easy for the elves to defeat them. When they spotted a foe, they also tended to attack straightaway, without waiting for reinforcements or bothering to hatch a plan. So it struck Rúmil as quite odd that the dark beasts he could see in the distance were simply observing the watchers in the forest. *I hope for the sake of us all that these foul creatures have not developed any sort of battle sense, or we shall all face new troubles.*

But the first rays of the sun prevented him from further observing this odd behavior, for with a shriek that Rúmil heard only faintly in the distance, the creatures vanished. Rúmil frowned to himself, puzzling over this new development, and looked at the sky. In another hour, he would be relieved, and he planned to take this strange observation to Haldir’s attention at once.

***

Faron, Galithil, and Nathron were breaking their fast with several warriors of Lórien when Legolas arrived with Limloeth and Orthelian. “We had begun to wonder if you were going to sleep all day,” Galithil remarked.

One of the Lórien warriors gestured for Legolas to be seated, and only after settling next to Haldir did he reply, “We have not had such leisure for some time, and I for one intend to enjoy it.”

“Pay her no heed, Legolas, she only arrived a minute before you did,” said Nathron, shooting a wicked grin at Galithil, who glared at him in turn.

Faron grinned at them both, and winked at Legolas, who grinned back. Seated beside the Galadhrim, fair-haired Legolas looked still more like he belonged in Lórien rather than Mirkwood. Limloeth seated herself next to her brother, “Has Lord Celeborn made any indication of Lórien’s plan for joining Mirkwood and Imladris in arms?”

Taking a slice of bread, Haldir replied, “Nay, with Langcyll and Glorfindel still at the camp, Lord Celeborn has not yet heard their report. He will wait at least until then to decide how to act.”

Orthelian paused from eating and looked at the four visiting warriors. “Are the mountains as bad as we have heard?”

The talk around the table ceased as the warriors of Lórien waited for an answer. Nathron slowly nodded. “The scourge of Sauron seems to have infected all Middle Earth. Orcs and wargs around every bend. It began as little more than a curiously large number, but for the past six weeks, we’d been embattled from dusk to dawn every night.”

Several of the Lórien warriors looked grave, and Limloeth shuddered. Just then, the elves heard the sound of a lone horse approaching. Haldir rose, and all the other warriors turned to look; it was Rúmil. “We must speak, Haldir.”

“There has been trouble?” asked Legolas.

“Perhaps. You shall hear of it soon, but now I must speak with my brother.” Haldir left the table and walked into the trees with Rúmil.

“Rúmil was on border watch this morning,” murmured Orthelian. “He was to be relieved an hour past dawn.”

Faron frowned, and turning back to the table, saw Legolas had stopped with a piece of fruit halfway to his mouth. The son of Thranduil looked ill. “Legolas?” Faron asked.

Legolas blinked. “What?”

“You looked troubled.”

With a little shake of his head, Faron’s friend answered, “Nay, it is nothing. I am merely tired.”

It was not an outright lie; Faron too felt the lingering ache of fatigue in his body and bones, but he had known Legolas too long to think that mere weariness was all that ailed him. But there was no point in persisting if Legolas chose not to be explicit, so he shrugged it off and continued eating. He did not notice Limloeth giving a surreptitious sideways glance at her youngest brother from the corner of her eyes. If he had, he would have realized that the princess of Mirkwood too saw through Legolas’s casual reply. And that she perhaps knew better than Faron what was troubling her brother.

***

“And they were merely watching?” Haldir asked incredulously, his brow furrowed with concern.

His brother Rúmil nodded. “Only for a few moments just before the dawn did they reveal themselves to me. But since the beginning of my watch, I felt that I was being observed. I believed at first that it was merely a warg or some solitary beast who feared coming closer, but now I suspect they watched us all night.”

The Lórien archer felt deeply disturbed. “What is happening here?” Neither he nor his brother could come up with a satisfactory answer, and at last Haldir said, “I shall report this to Lord Celeborn.”

“What will he say, do you think?” asked Rúmil.

“I do not know. Speak nothing of this for now,” Haldir told his brother. “Let us grant our guests some respite from the shadow.”

When Haldir went before Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, he knew that his brother’s report troubled them. Though both looked as serene as ever, many centuries in their service had taught Haldir to read the small, nearly indiscernible signs of vexation. For Celeborn, it was the faintest furrowing of the brows, and Galadriel’s dazzling eyes seemed to dim slightly, betraying their unease. “Now the shadow encroaches our realm,” Galadriel murmured at length, her eyes downcast.

“Its power grows strong, but it cannot yet threaten us,” Celeborn said to her. It seemed to Haldir that Celeborn was trying to reassure Galadriel, which was odd, because it was she who normally spoke of hope. Now Galadriel seemed the one disheartened.

Returning her attention to Haldir, Galadriel said, “We must be ever on our guard, Haldir. Caution your watchers never to relax their vigilance.”

Haldir bowed deeply to her. “It shall be so, my lady.” Receiving their nods of dismissal, he departed, wishing he could now and then come before his Lord and Lady bearing something other than ill tidings. It seemed there had been nothing but ill news to report for the past three hundred years, and Haldir tired of it already. It grieved him deep in his heart to see Galadriel’s eyes darken with sorrow so often.

*The only comfort I can seem to offer her is the unflinching dedication of my warriors and myself,* he thought as he returned to the ground of the forest. *These days it seems not enough. Would that I had more power to dispel this shadow.*

***

The Lady Galadriel walked to the wide window of her dwelling after Haldir had gone, staring down to the forest floor. Through the gaps in the trees, she could just see the warriors breakfasting in the open beneath the golden canopy. None of them noticed her gaze, save one. Legolas happened to glance up, and his eyes inadvertently met hers. The young elf did not move, but stared at Galadriel with combined curiosity and awe until she moved from the window. She stepped back at last so that she could no longer see his face. *So very young to bear such weight. Were he and all his generation born only to see the world come to darkness? It is a cruel destiny, to be one of a few upon whom the fate of us all shall rest. Even the Mirror gave him no comprehension of what the future holds for him.*

Celeborn, standing just as he had been since Haldir had left, watched his wife, sensing her troubled thoughts. “The Enemy’s power grows,” he said quietly.

“It does,” said Galadriel, looking again out the window.

“You have sensed it?”

She nodded grimly. “He is seeking it, my love. I perceive him and his mind, more with each passing day. Ever he gropes to see me and my thought. For now, at least, our power shall repel him. But if the Enemy should find what he seeks…”

“He shall not, my love. All our power shall be bent to prevent it. The realms of the elves and Middle Earth shall not fall to him again,” Celeborn said, walking to her side and taking her hand. He did not go to the window, but knew of whom Galadriel had been reflecting. “You spoke to the son of Thranduil last night.” It was not a question.

“I did,” she answered, her own heart troubled by the darkness the young elf had seen. “Even that which the Mirror showed to him shall not be warning enough for the darkness he will face.”

“It cannot be avoided,” Celeborn told her. “Many will face great fear, sorrow, and death before the end, but only through sacrifice will Middle Earth be rid of evil. His shall be no different.”

“Nay,” Galadriel said softly. “A few will face far more than most, and give far more. All the realms and races of Middle Earth are imperiled by the shadow, and a very few from each race shall find themselves at the center of the quest to destroy it.” She turned to face her husband, feeling a sense of dread as though she were pronouncing a death sentence. “Fate has chosen Legolas of Mirkwood to stand for all the elves of Middle Earth, when the time calls all races together to combat the forces of darkness.”

Celeborn bowed his head, understanding now the particular interest Galadriel had had in the prince since his arrival. Celeborn had not the power of Galadriel, but his perception was greater than other elves. “There has always been little point in arguing with destiny. We shall all face struggle and woe before our time is done.”

Another premonition pricked Galadriel’s mind, and the Lady of Lórien turned her face toward the western border. Her eyes distant and seeing, Galadriel whispered, “The struggle shall began sooner than we realized.”

***

Several days later…

Elladan, Elrohir, and Glorfindel rode into Caras Galadhon to be greeted by the cheers of their fellow warriors and the elves of Lórien. The sons of Elrond, nearly fully-recovered from their respective wounds, dismounted their horses and made a great show of scraping and bowing graciously to the assembled elves, as Glorfindel laughed at them. Faron led the charge of warriors to clasp arms with his kinsmen. “We were beginning to think you two would never mend.”

Clapping the youngest Imladris warrior on the back, Elladan replied quickly, “It took Elrohir some time to recover.” Then he had to duck to avoid being clouted and the others laughed.

The elves of Mirkwood joined them along with the warriors of Lórien. “Langcyll and the others did not come with you?” asked Legolas, looking about.

“Nay, Elunen is still recovering from her injuries,” Glorfindel told him. “But I do not expect they will be more than a day or two behind us.” Reading the other warrior’s expression, the captain of Imladris thought, *The separation will do you good as well, young Legolas. I am glad to have extracted that promise from Langcyll when I did. Time for you to stand on your own two feet.*

Glorfindel turned his attention to Haldir as the warrior captain of Lórien approached. “I am glad to see you, Glorfindel. You think it will not be long before Langcyll joins us?”

“Nay,” Glorfindel replied. “All of his company save Elunen are now fit to travel, but they chose to wait until she was well. She will most likely be able to ride tomorrow.”

Haldir nodded. “Then in the mean time, Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel wished to see you as soon as you and the sons of Elrond arrived.”

“Lead on, then. Come, boys,” Glorfindel ordered Elladan and Elrohir, who had been about to begin astonishing several maids of Lórien with tales of their adventures.

With apologetic waves and promises to return, the sons of Elrond followed Glorfindel and Haldir to the dwelling of Galadriel.

***

Legolas felt somewhat guilty for leaving the others, but there was a place he had desired to go ever since his arrival, and he felt he could wait no longer. Shortly after Glorfindel and the twins returned from giving their report to Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, the attention of everyone was focused enough upon them that Legolas was able to slip away without being noticed. Being among so many fair-haired elves, Legolas had noted how much less attention was paid to him (and relished every moment of it.) In this instance, none paid any heed to another fair head disappearing into the trees as the sun went down.

A few days before, Limloeth had told Legolas how to reach the Nimrodel from Caras Galadhon. Several of his friends from Lórien had offered to show Legolas, but the elf felt a strange desire to go alone. The truth was, he had yearned for a chance to be alone with his thoughts ever since that first night in Caras Galadhon, when he had looked into Galadriel’s Mirror.

Riding through the darkening wood on Lanthir’s back, Legolas pondered what he had seen, and the Lady’s words. *I have done nothing but ponder it all since then, and can make no more sense of it now than I could when I first saw it.*

The eyes of Lanthir were as keen as his rider’s in the dark, and the elven horse too seemed to have an instinctive awareness of their destination. Legolas hardly needed to guide him, and it was not long before elf and horse heard the musical flowing of Nimrodel ahead of them. Legolas dismounted and turned Lanthir loose, electing to walk the last few paces to the riverbank.

There was no moon, but starlight danced across the water’s rippling, foaming surface. Breathing deeply in the misty night air, Legolas walked slowly along the edge, enjoying the song of river and forest. He did not bother to keep track of either the distance or the time that passed, and felt no qualm about it. He could not remember a time he had felt so at peace.

Following a bend in the river, Legolas found a place where the stream slowed and grew deeper, and the trees hung gracefully over it, letting their longest branches brush its bubbling surface. Shedding his tunic and shoes, he climbed upon a rock and dove in, plunging deep before coming again to the surface. The water was cold, but its touch was clean, and soon Legolas felt that the stain of battle and fatigue of travel was being washed from him.

Thus he swam for some time, as long as the river remained deep enough to permit it, sometimes diving down to its bed, startling the fish, and other times paddling and floating along the surface, listening to the sweet voice of Nimrodel. At last, he felt the current speeding up as he approached the falls and climbed out of the water, shaking his head, and feeling as though he had taken a long, luxurious rest, rather than a vigorous swim. As he looked back up the bank the way he had come, the only question in his mind was whether to walk back to where he had left his clothes or to swim back upstream.

*I have not swum against current in years,* he thought idly, tossing a stone into the water. *Still, my wound is healed and I am fit; it has been long since I enjoyed a good swim.*

With that thought, he walked into the water again and began paddling back upriver. Diving down again and holding his breath, Legolas opened his eyes and gazed at the riverbed below him. No clogging scum or grime coated the bed of Nimrodel; the riverbed was lined with pebbles, shells, and gracefully waving plants, populated by fish, probably marveling at their good luck to live in such a place. Few predators fished here--other than the elves, that is, and they took no more fish than they needed.

As Legolas bobbed back down after filling his lungs again, a glimmer beneath him caught his eye. Diving closer to the bottom, he discovered a softly-gleaming object in the shallow part of the riverbed, uncovered by sand. It was a pearl. A round, white pearl, nestled against the base of a green kelp. Legolas picked it up and popped to the surface, standing and letting the river flow around him. Rolling the pure white gem with his fingertips, his perplexity soon melted, and a smile came to his lips. He plunged back under the water and returned the pearl to the base of the plant where he had found it, then swam on. *How I wish you were here to see this place, Tathar.*

Legolas swam along the surface then, until he reached the bend close to where the river turned fast and shallow again, and where he had left his clothes. Rounding that final turn, he swam to the bank and climbed from the water with regret, but full of peace. *Ah, Nimrodel, the legends do not exaggerate. I rather think they fail to do you justice.*

He found his clothes where he had left them in the shadow of a large, fallen tree limb, and had finished drying and dressing himself when he heard footsteps approaching stealthily. But the sounds were loud enough to tell him that these were not elves, but rather intruders, trying with little success to conceal the noise of their passage through the forest. Legolas slid noiselessly out of sight under the thick branches and watched.

Orcs, two or three of them, were creeping through the brush above the riverbank opposite him. Legolas felt white-hot fury course through him at this foul invasion into Galadriel’s sacred realm. But he was only one, and caution stayed his hand from making use of his bow. Instead, he watched.

The fell creatures of Mordor seemed almost like scouts, surveying the land they planned to invade. But this was odd, because orcs seldom, if ever, resorted to that kind of technique. From all Legolas had seen and all his elder comrades had told him, the most strategy orc armies ever used was charging headlong without bothering with reconnaissance. *This is an ill turn, if along with their increasing number, these beasts are growing smarter.*

His powerful eyesight kept the orcs within his view for some distance, and they were still well within earshot of him when another sound reached his ears. The orcs froze, and Legolas recognized the soft footfalls of an unsuspecting elf, wandering the forest--and heading straight to where the orcs were now hiding in the undergrowth. His hand was forced. Leaping from the cover of the brush, Legolas took aim with his bow to where he knew the fell creatures had hidden, and let an arrow fly. The struck creature’s scream of pain was deafening, and a startled gasp told Legolas that the other elf had now been warned. The orcs instinctively looked back in the direction from which the arrow had come, and saw the lone elf standing on the riverbank. With screeches of challenge, the two remaining creatures charged at Legolas, and found themselves almost instantly felled by his bow.

Splashing across the shallow part of the river, Legolas came upon the carcasses of the three orcs and eyed them with distaste before retrieving his arrows. A faint rustling in the brush startled him, and he looked up to see a she-elf of Lórien coming towards him, staring in disbelief at the orcs. Raising her eyes to meet his, she demanded, “How did this foulness manage to breach our land?”

“I know not,” replied Legolas.

“Were you not on the watch?” she asked him.

Legolas realized she was mistaking him for one of her own relations and smiled, “Nay, I am not of this land, Lady.”

The maiden blinked and looked at him more closely. Legolas was wearing a silver tunic gifted to him from his new brother-in-law, rather than his usual Mirkwood colors, and it took her a moment to recognize him as one of her northern kindred. She at last connected his classically Lórien features with what she knew of the elves of Mirkwood and laughed, “Forgive me, my lord, you look so like one of my brethren that I did not recognize you.”

Laughing in his turn, Legolas replied, “No apologies are necessary, Lady; this was an unexpected meeting.” Glancing about with a frown, he asked her, “Were you walking alone?”

“I was,” the maiden sighed, gazing at the dead orcs. “Until tonight, none of us has ever seen the need for such concern within the borders of Lórien.”

With a sigh of his own, Legolas looked around him, “It seems there is a need now. We should return to Caras Galadhon and inform the captain of the watch.”

The maiden agreed, and Legolas whistled for Lanthir. The horse bounded up, and Legolas mounted with the maiden in front of him, then they set off. “I am Gaeriel, daughter of Maethor of Lórien,” she told him. “I presume you are Legolas, son of Thranduil.”

“I am, my lady,” Legolas replied respectfully. He knew Maethor was among the highest noble elves in Lórien, not far below Galadriel and Celeborn, and his wife Lady Idhren was a ranking elf of Imladris. It was all he could do not to cringe at the thought of the remarks he would hear when he rode into Caras Galadhon with one of the highest ranking ladies in all the elven realms in front of him, but it could not be helped.

Before the silence could become uncomfortable, Lady Gaeriel said, “I had heard of the troubles your war party faced in the mountains. I suppose we should not be surprised the creatures of Mordor are now aiming to attack Lothlórien.”

Legolas nodded, “Not surprised, perhaps, but it is galling nonetheless.”

“Orcs and spiders penetrated Mirkwood centuries ago.”

Defensively, he answered, “Mirkwood is much larger than Lórien, Lady, and the shadow fell directly over great expanses of it. Even all the warrior companies of Middle Earth could not cover that ground, at least not without abandoning the rest of their realms.”

“I meant no slight against Mirkwood or its people, my lord. It is simply fact, although cruel. Mirkwood is all but taken, Imladris is plagued more and more with each passing year, and now the borders of Lórien have been breached. Soon there will be no safe place in Middle Earth,” Gaeriel’s voice was sad.

Her voice echoed the warrior’s feelings, and he said gravely, “A fitting portent of the return of the Enemy.” He felt the Lady of Lórien stiffen in front of him, and she turned wide hazel eyes to meet his, dismayed by his words. They spoke little more for the rest of the ride.

***

The arrival and report from Prince Legolas and Lady Gaeriel set all of Lórien into a hue and cry. Lanterns that had been extinguished at that late hour were lit again, elves ran to and fro, and all of Caras Galadhon was ablaze with light. Warriors were mustered and charged off into the wood on patrol for more foul intruders, and Legolas joined the fit members of his company returning to the camp where Langcyll and the remaining warriors of Mirkwood had stayed. Legolas glanced over his shoulder as he and his companions rode away, in time to see the Lady Gaeriel vanishing into one of the larger trees, her auburn hair changing silver light to gold. He turned back to see Faron grinning at him. “What?” he demanded.

With a disgusting leer, his friend drawled, “I wondered where you had disappeared to after dinner. I did not know you and Lady Gaeriel had been introduced!”

“We only met after encountering the orcs,” Legolas growled.

“Indeed?” said Glorfindel with feigned incredulity in his voice. Legolas glared at the Imladris captain, then at Elladan and Elrohir as they began to nudge each other and wink at the others. The entire company was soon enjoying a good laugh at the prince of Mirkwood’s expense.

“Was Lady Gaeriel not offered to you during the Gathering?” Galithil asked sweetly.

Legolas gritted his teeth and did not answer, but Faron told her (loudly), “Nay, it is safe to say that Gaeriel, daughter of Maethor, is one of the few ladies in Middle Earth whose prospects might be higher than Legolas. Eregolf offered for her and was refused.”

That startled Legolas, and Nathron whistled in astonishment. “Eregolf may not be a prince, but nor is he lacking in noble blood. Did Maethor refuse, or Gaeriel herself?”

“I know not.” Legolas began breathing a sigh of relief that the company’s attention was turned away from him, but found he was too soon, for Faron began grinning again, “Perhaps after tonight, her inclinations might be toward marrying outside her own realm--”

“Enough!” Legolas practically barked.

“You are blushing, Legolas!”

When they reached the campsite and were reunited with the rest of the company, they learned that a large party of orcs had been seen in the low hills just beyond Lórien. “Watching again?” Legolas asked Orophin.

“Yea. And there has been more than one group tonight. At first it seemed that they were just advancing and falling back, but now I believe there are different bands coming onto the ridge for a peek at our borders,” Haldir’s brother told the younger elf.

“They mean to launch a full-scale attack,” Glorfindel said. It was more an expectation than a question.

“I fear so,” said Orophin. “They must realize that the power of Lady Galadriel will prevent them from getting far within our woods undetected, so they try instead a head-on assault.”

Several of the company shuddered. An orc assault upon Lothlórien. It seemed inconceivable. “What shall we do?” Fanfirith asked Glorfindel and Orophin.

“We are to join the reinforcements fortifying the border,” said Glorfindel. “They know we are aware of them, yet still they come. They must have a very large force to try and threaten us.”

Orophin nodded as he led them to join the border guards, “We expect their attack no later than dusk tonight. We have that much time to prepare.”

Reunited at last, the company rode together to the border with Orophin. “How is your side, Elunen?” Legolas enquired.

“It is well,” the warrioress answered, stretching her torso to demonstrate. “I have been ready to rejoin the rest of you for two days, but Langcyll insisted on waiting longer.”

They heard the captain of Mirkwood chuckle. “I know of none who make more difficult patients, except perhaps you, Legolas.”

The younger warrior smiled sheepishly (he knew it to be true.) Unfortunately, Faron chose that moment to announce to their newly-arrived companions that Legolas had ridden into Caras Galadhon with a handsome lady of Lórien on his horse. Whistles, snickers, and raised eyebrows were instantly directed at Legolas, who in turn directed a fierce scowl at Faron. “I could not very well let her walk back when there were orcs on the prowl, Faron, and I’ll thank you to cease this ridiculous gossiping,” he said curtly.

Unintimidated, his friend just grinned. Looking away, Legolas shook his head in disgust. *One of these days, I shall have my share of laughter at his expense.*

***

A large company of warriors were already at the border nearest the mountains when the company of Langcyll and Glorfindel arrived. The sun was well overhead by then, and Haldir was returning with a scouting party from the foothills. “We dared not venture too close to Moria or into the caves,” he told the assembled defenders. “But we did see signs of many orcs in the area. We also heard them when we came close to the caverns.”

“How many will there be, do you think?” Langcyll asked in a foreboding tone.

Haldir turned and faced the hills again, gleaming green, yellow, and brown in the late autumn sun. It would not be cool enough tonight to slow the orcs down. Answering Langcyll question, he said grimly, “I fear we will be facing as many as an entire legion. An army to be sure, and more organized than most marauding bands we have been encountering for the past millennia.”

“We shall have to be more organized in our defense, then,” said Glorfindel.

Another group of riders came from Caras Galadhon then, carrying weapons and supplies. Haldir sighed. *After the Last Alliance, I had hoped never again to be fighting this way. War and patrol parties are a necessity in their own right, but this sort of regimented, methodical bloodshed is abhorrent to our people.* But his patrol had seen the warning signs of the massing orcs, and knew the vile beasts would be coming for his land whether his people found wholesale slaughter distasteful or not.

Turning to the visiting captains, and his fellow Lórien warriors, Haldir said, “I agree. Each of the captains shall command a unit of warriors in the defense, and we shall form brigades to protect each stretch of the border. They outnumber us at least five to one, perhaps more. The beasts of Sauron must not penetrate Lothlórien.” Glancing up at the sun, he announced, “We have four, perhaps five hours until full dark.”

And so the elves were mustered in the defense of Lothlórien. Langcyll, Glorfindel, Haldir, Rúmil, and Orthelian divided command of the warriors into five divisions. Langcyll took all of his Mirkwood warriors and several dozen Lórien warriors, bringing his unit to fifty. Each of the other captains commanded a group of the same number.

Haldir noticed that although he had in effect given an equal rank to each of the five, the other four commanders still deferred to him, acknowledging him as still the ranking warrior of this realm, and first in charge of its defense. *Tonight we shall know whether I am worthy of this command,* the captain of Lórien thought grimly.

***

As the sun continued its careless arc across the sky, the defenders of Lórien worked furiously to prepare for a head-on assault. Limloeth of Mirkwood was knocking dead branches from the trees to prevent accidental falls in the heat of battle. From her vantage point in the division under the command of Rúmil, she could just see her husband Orthelian commanding the division on her right, and her brother Legolas under the command of Langcyll on her left.

The princess shuddered, knocking loose another dangerous dead limb and absently patting the bole of the tree she was in. She was the second of Thranduil of Mirkwood’s children, and she and her elder brother Berensul had fought in the Last Alliance with their father, in the battle on the slopes of Mount Doom where their grandfather and many of their kin had been slain. The deja-vu of this approaching battle made Limloeth, like Haldir, slightly nauseated with tension and horrific memory. *As we marched home with Father, bearing the dead and wounded bodies of so many of our kindred, I asked only one thing of fate: that I should never see such a battle again. How bitter that even that simple prayer went unanswered.*

Beneath her on the ground, elves were being given extra quivers of arrows, swords, and spears by the continuous stream of supply parties that rode out from Caras Galadhon. Like every other elf in Middle Earth, Limloeth revered the Golden Wood and the City of Light. The thought of the foul creatures of Sauron tramping through the woods of Lothlórien was too dreadful to picture.

More warriors were rigging a line of sharpened posts pointing out of the trees. Limloeth smiled grimly to herself. The orcs would find Lórien turned into a nest of wooden thorns by the time they attacked. *They shall soon learn the folly of their boldness,* she told herself resolutely. *No beast of Sauron shall cross into my land while I or any of my kindred still draw breath.*

***

The sun was sinking lower, and the elves were speeding their work. Legolas looked over his shoulder into the darkening forest. Well back into the trees, he could see healers readying their herbs, bandages, and tools on hastily-erected flets in the trees. Langcyll brushed past him on his way to the front, and Legolas caught his arm, gesturing at the healers. “Most of us were too weak to climb when we were seriously wounded.”

Langcyll looked back as well, and told Legolas, “See if something can be rigged to lift our wounded into the trees. They will not be safe upon the ground while the battle is being fought.”

Legolas nodded and darted away. With the help of several hastily-recruited warriors and healers, he rigged litters with ropes to lift them up to the flets and talans where the injured would be safe. Testing one by riding it into the tree, Legolas felt his stomach turn at the sight of the piles of herbs and bandages. *Never has there been such certainty of serious casualties. They look as though they are preparing for a massacre.*

Dropping down from the flet, Legolas was satisfied that the wounded would be safely evacuated to the treetops, and returned to the front. The sun was now behind the mountains, and the sky was red. The warriors at the front were quiet, and Legolas could hear distant orc shrieks. *Again, they will charge straight for us the minute the light has vanished.*

Red flags waved from each division, including Langcyll’s. The captain ordered the best archers into the trees, Legolas and Faron included. “Do not shoot until you have a good aim,” Langcyll warned the archers. “Do not waste arrows, for they have a massive advantage in numbers.”

The sun was all but gone as Legolas took up his perch in the V of a sturdy tree limb, only just above the heads of the warriors on the ground, but where he had a clear view of the approach to the forest. Looking to his right, he saw his sister Limloeth in another tree. Their eyes met, and her anxiety was visible as she raised a hand in a silent blessing. Legolas responded in kind. *Do not be afraid for me, sister. I can take care of myself.* He smiled at her and she grinned back, they both knew she had mothered him for far too long for two years’ separation to break the habit. Limloeth would always fret over Legolas. His attention returned to his own division as Langcyll waved a white flag, indicating his division’s readiness.

The last rays of light vanished, turning the sky behind the dark hills royal blue. Upon the ridge in the hills, Legolas saw a line of darkness appear, as massive numbers of orcs began gathering in preparation to charge the realm of Galadriel. Langcyll was just below him. Without looking up at the young warrior, the captain said, “There, Legolas, now you see before you an orc army. A shade different from the bands we have fought before.”

“You fought many such armies and survived,” replied Legolas, not taking his eyes from the growing shadow over the hills. “You turned them back before, and we shall tonight.”

Orophin was beside Langcyll. “My brother estimated correctly. There are at least a thousand, perhaps two or three thousand.”

“Assuming they have no reinforcements waiting still in the caves,” Elunen said.

“Make ready, all of you,” Langcyll ordered. The warriors braced themselves. A single shriek filled the air followed by the beat of drums. “Here they come!”

From thousands of orc throats came a collective battle cry so loud that it all but deafened the waiting elves. Then the sound of the drums was practically drowned out by the thundering of feet as the legion poured over the hills like a flood of slimy black water. Legolas steadied himself on his perch and readied an arrow, waiting for the instant when an orc would come into his line of fire. *You shall not take us, or this land. Not while I live, or any of us.*

He could have fired randomly into the mass and probably strike true every time, but he had no intention of being careless with his arrows. But he did not have long to wait, soon he could distinguish the foul creatures from one another, and wasted no time sighting one and shooting. The orc dropped, tripping up several of its comrades, and by the time the first of them rose again, Legolas had felled six more.

A rain of elven arrows decimated the first line of orc attackers, but the creatures pressed on. They still had considerable ground to cover before reaching the trees. They had their shields raised, but the moon was full and rising fast, so superior elven eyes found every gap in their defenses.

Still they came, charging at the borders of Lórien. And their shields were presenting a problem for the archers, for it prevented them from increasing their rate of shooting. “Spear-bearers, make ready!” Langcyll bellowed over the din of charging orcs and whistling arrows.

Legolas sat back on his branch and waited as the warriors below turned their spears to javelins. On Langcyll’s command, a deadly cloud of spears sailed through the air onto the orcs charging the warriors. The hard, strong metal spearheads pierced right through the orc shields and felled many of them. The rest found themselves unprotected and were met by a new hail of elven arrows.

And still they came, closer with every second. It seemed to Legolas that the nearly three hundred elven warriors on the border were barely making a dent in this multitude. And the orcs were nearly upon them. The elves were spreading out into the trees, aware that hand-to-hand combat was imminent. Legolas stood upon his branch, continuing to aim and shoot as the first orcs rushed headlong into the pointy-edged wooden fence the elves had erected.

The momentum of the army’s charge was so powerful that the hundreds of orcs in the front of the legion were unable to slow in time, nor did they have the space to clamber over the barricades. Instead, they were driven helplessly forward by the force of their own companions’ headlong charge, and impaled by the dozens upon the stakes. Had Legolas not been painfully aware of the brutal battle about to take place, he would have laughed. The utter lack of strategy or battle-sense in orcs was a long-running joke among elves and indeed all free races of Middle Earth, a joke that had been told as long as the orcs themselves had existed.

But now the weight of dead and still-pressing orcs was breaking the barricade down. Legolas knew there was no longer any point in saving his arrows; he would be fighting on the ground in seconds and there would be no space for shooting. He emptied his last quiver into the orcs crawling over the bodies of their fellows, and readied himself to jump.

The first orcs gained the top of the pile of broken wood and dead bodies, and leapt toward the waiting elf warriors. Three charged Langcyll at once, and Legolas chose that moment to jump, taking two of them down with the weight of his body. He embedded one knife in the neck of each and scrambled to his feet in time to see Langcyll dispatch the third. “Spread out!” Langcyll yelled at him. “We must not press too close!”

The elves backed away several yards from the barricades as the orcs poured over, then ran to meet the new charge. Seeing the other elves in front of him dashing into the fray, Legolas wondered, *How many of us shall be dead when the sun rises?* Drawing his Lórien-crafted sword (a gift from Haldir) in one hand and one of his knives in another, Legolas whirled into action. There was no longer time to think, only to act.

They came, seemingly from all directions, though Legolas knew that he was facing them and two capable elves flanked him, but it seemed that orcs were all around. Sweeping his sword, he beheaded one, then ducked beneath the blow of another, slashing his knife through its throat, only to turn and be forced to dodge the swipe of a third. An inconsequential swipe of an orcish dagger licked across his arm as he drove his knife into a random orc throat, and swung his sword in the other direction parrying a sword blow from another orc. He spun back, but this one was a better fighter than the first few, and it took Legolas several blows to get past the creature’s defenses and dispatch it, running it clean through.

Wrenching his sword free, the elf warrior staggered and looked around, feeling slightly disoriented. All about him were fighting bodies beneath the trees, as far as his eyes could see. Orc screeches, elf challenges, and cries of pain from both deafened him. There were so many around Legolas that he could scarcely tell which direction the main force was coming from anymore. With a shake of his head, he plunged back into battle, surging forward to meet another wave of orcs.

***

Elladan slung his brother Elrohir’s arm over his shoulder and half-dragged, half-carried him deeper into the forest to where the healers were treating the wounded. Glorfindel and three elves of Lórien were covering them until they cleared the battle, and Elladan grunted at his twin, “Our wounds only just healed and you go and get yourself stabbed again. I cannot take my eyes off you for a second!”

In a shaky but cheerful voice, Elrohir answered, “After your fine lack of self-defense in our last battle, I was distracted by the necessity of looking after you. If I could trust you to take care of yourself, I could pay more attention to my own foes.”

Elladan would have answered, but his younger twin hissed in pain then, one hand moving involuntarily to the deep and nasty stab wound in his hip. The injury was bleeding profusely, and cursing with gritted teeth, Elladan quickened his pace. Just as they finally reached the healers’ post, and several ran to meet them, the pain became too much, and Elrohir went limp. Elladan did not falter, but swept his brother into his arms and broke into a run. The healers hurried to his side, examining the wound. “I do not think he is in mortal danger, but the bleeding must be stopped,” he panted.

“Quickly,” the healer helped Elladan stretch out his unconscious twin upon the litter on the ground, then someone dropped a roll of bandages from the trees. The healer hastily tied off the wound to halt the bleeding, and waved up into the tree. Elladan blinked in surprise as four elves on the flet above pulled ropes from the branches and hoisted the litter up to them.

Elladan knew he should return to the battle, but he climbed quickly up to look as the healers put a better dressing on the wound. “Well?”

“It is not terribly serious, Lord Elladan,” the healer reported. “The knife struck the hip bone, and he will not have the use of his legs for a few days, but the bleeding is under control. He will recover completely.”

A half-gasp, half-sob of relief escaped the son of Elrond. Gripping the healer’s shoulder, Elladan managed to say, “My deepest thanks. I must return now.”

“Take care, warrior and kinsman,” the healer said. “We shall look after Lord Elrohir.”

Nodding quickly and stooping to gently touch his brother’s shoulder, the Imladris warrior forced himself to descend from the tree. Turning back towards the sounds of battle, he passed many wounded elves staggering or being carried toward the healers’ post. Among them, he saw Galithil of Mirkwood, Orophin of Lórien, and Maethor of Lórien, along with many, many others who passed swiftly by. *We are losing many of our people,* he thought frantically as he began to sprint faster back to the battle. *If we are not taking at least three times as many orcs, we are done for.*

***

Langcyll of Mirkwood was also returning from the healer post after carrying a wounded Lórien elf from his division there. Bursting back into the melee, he feared what he might find. Whirling his sword and spear at any black beast that came too close, he also cast his eyes about for his warriors. Orophin had taken an arrow through the shoulder (it must have been pure chance that an orc happened to hit him in this fracas) and assured Langcyll that he could reach the healers himself. Galithil had also fallen, and one of the others had carried her toward safety.

There was Elunen, spearing orcs as they jumped over the barricades until her spear looked like a meat-stick, and Glanaur and Fanfirith back-to-back, sword-fighting with helmeted orcs. There was Nathron pinning an orc to a tree with his sword and...where was Legolas?

Dodging, then parrying an attack from an orcish spear, Langcyll looked desperately around. There were orcs and elves fighting in every direction, but with so many fair Lórien elves about, it was impossible to pick out Legolas in the chaos. Langcyll’s experience warned him not to call out for the prince; Legolas would take it as a warning of danger and might be distracted–which amid this madness might prove fatal. Langcyll dared not, and Glorfindel’s words to him came back again.

*I must cease this line of thought. Glorfindel was right. I must pay attention to the welfare of all my warriors and myself,* the captain of Mirkwood told himself firmly, forcing himself to focus on his own fight. *After all,* he reminded himself, *Legolas may be the youngest, but he has swiftly become one of the best, and I think will soon be the best of all my warriors. He will be fine.

*He must be.*

***

*By the Valar, they are everywhere!* Legolas could not be sure whether it was ten minutes or ten hours that had passed since the sun had set, and still the orcs came. He was cut, bruised, and bloody from head to toe, his clothes torn, his hair wet and streaked with sweat and dirt. His body ached, throbbed, and stung from the numerous small wounds he had received.

He was in the middle of a fierce sword battle with an especially quick orc, who also bore a shield while Legolas did not. Dodging and parrying hard blows, Legolas retreated backwards just as another orc behind him was shot down by a fellow warrior. The creature fell directly behind Legolas, and the prince was unable to cease his hasty steps backwards in time. He stumbled over the carcass, falling helplessly backwards, and the sword flew from his hand. The orc leapt forward for the kill, and Legolas hastily scuttled back more on the ground, having no time to rise. Even as the orc raised its sword to deliver a death blow and Legolas flinched, a shriek went up from all around. It was the warning of the orcs–the sun was coming back. The attacking orc faltered, and Legolas rolled aside, grabbed a discarded knife from the ground and hurled it with deadly accuracy into the creature’s head.

Fighting off growing weariness, the elf sprang to his feet, knowing the orcs’ only hope was now to retreat back to the mountains or attempt (foolishly) to go deeper into Lórien to escape the sun. Surely they would...but they did not retreat. This meant that they knew the battle would end with their defeat--or rather, massacre--if they did not get past the elves and into the deep woods. Retrieving his sword and knife, Legolas readied himself for a still-harder charge, that would now be borne of desperation.

The orcs did not disappoint him. Two of them flung themselves at Legolas so hard that all three combatants were nearly thrown to the ground. Legolas spitted one with his sword and had a deal of difficulty freeing his hand to gut the other with his long knife. All around him, the press of panicked but determined orcs was pushing the elven warriors back, but though the defense lines bent, they did not break. Legolas was still facing west, the direction from whence the orcs were coming, so he had no way of seeing how close the sun was to rising. An elf’s cry of pain caught his attention and he turned to see a dark-haired she-elf wearing Lórien colors fall under a blow from an orc sword. His heart leapt to his throat. It was Limloeth.

“No--” Legolas beheaded four orcs in his race to his sister’s side.

Limloeth was semiconscious, blood gushing from a deep wound in her abdomen. Legolas sensed rather than consciously saw several warriors come to protective positions around him, but did not bother looking to see who they were. “Legolas, get her out of here!” He did recognize Orthelian’s voice, and the panic in it.

As he pressed hard on the wound to stop the bleeding, Legolas held his sister against him, and he trembled helplessly. “You will be all right, Lim,” he whispered repeatedly, keeping the pressure on her injury.

“Legolas?” she raised pain-filled eyes to his face and let her head drop to his shoulder again. Squeezing her eyes shut against the pain, she said, “I do not think it is so bad. I’ve had worse.”

Choking back a sob, Legolas asked her, “Can you keep your hand over it? I must get you to the healers.”

Limloeth nodded and took the blood-soaked piece of cloth Legolas had been using, and held it against her own wound. The youngest prince of Mirkwood swept his one living sister into his arms and carried her swiftly through the forest. A great howl went up behind him, and he heard voices cry, “Look out!”

His arms were full; there was no way Legolas could aid the warriors at this time. But facing east, he saw light through the treetops as the orcs managed to break through the warriors in their efforts to escape the sun. Looking back, Legolas saw at least a dozen orcs bearing straight toward him, prepared to kill both him and Limloeth to make their escape. He ran, wincing as Limloeth’s breath caught with pain, but he had to stay ahead of the orcs. Other warriors were rushing the creatures, trying to stop them, but the orcs knew they were out of time.

“Put me down, Legolas,” his sister pleaded. “They’re almost upon you!”

“No!” Legolas snapped. He could not be certain that he could protect her against so many, and he would never leave her.

All at once, a great light appeared in front of him in a blinding flash, and a strange force knocked him backwards, off balance. Dropping to his knees, Legolas laid Limloeth swiftly down, drew his knives, and whirled to attack the approaching orcs, but to his astonishment, they had fallen as well, and lay dead where they had dropped. Turning back in confusion, Legolas froze.

The Lady Galadriel was standing not far away, an otherworldly look in her eyes, and glowing with a brilliance even greater than normal. Legolas knelt again beside Limloeth, partly to see to her wound but also because he did not think his legs would support him if he continued to look upon Galadriel. Limloeth remained conscious and coherent, but she also was struck dumb.

Galadriel’s eyes surveyed the scene of the battle, where orc corpses lay in great heaps, and elves stared about in confusion, wondering why the creatures had suddenly dropped dead. When she spoke, the eyes of every one were upon her, for there was a fierceness in her voice and her face, “The creatures of the Enemy will hesitate to attack our borders with such impunity again.”

Sitting up with her brother’s anxious help, Limloeth fought past her own pain and asked, “Is it over, my lady?”

The hard, fierce eyes became soft and sad, and Galadriel turned her gaze to the wounded warrioress. Slowly she nodded, but then, in a quiet voice that somehow carried to be heard by all, the Lady Galadriel added grimly, “Until the next time.”

*****  



	16. Farewell to Lorien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

For a few moments, the dreadful meaning of Lady Galadriel’s words all but froze every elf on the battlefield. The silence was broken at last by a groan from an injured elf, and the entire host sprang into action. Legolas looked hastily to his sister’s wound, “How is it?”

Gritting her teeth against the pain, Limloeth replied, “Not so very bad.”

Legolas moved to pick Limloeth up again and carry her to the healers, when Galadriel raised a hand. He hesitated, and the lady glided through the trees and knelt gracefully at the prince and princess’s side. She wore a white cloak over her gown, and from she removed a thick white cloth, and a phial of some liquid. Liberally dousing the cloth with the medicine, she eased the bloodstained tunic aside and gently laid the cloth against Limloeth’s wound.

The princess flinched slightly as though anticipating great pain, but relaxed as soon as the dosed cloth came into contact with her skin. Legolas, holding her hand tightly, looked with awe at the lady, whose eyes were on the stab wound. After a moment, she took Limloeth’s hand and placed it over the cloth. “Hold it there until the wound is dressed by the healers,” she told the warrioress. “It will prevent more bleeding.” Raising her eyes to Legolas, she nodded in the direction of the healers’ post, and Legolas needed no urging to lift his sister and bear her swiftly away.

Having no need to run but walking hastily, Legolas stopped in his tracks when he came through the trees to the healers’ post. He beheld a scene certain to give him nightmares for years. Nearly twenty healers had come from Caras Galadhon and other parts of Lórien, anticipating heavy casualties in the battle on the border. But now, they were all but overwhelmed, rushing from one wounded warrior to the next, enlisting the less-injured warriors to help.

Everywhere, all over the ground, elven warriors lay bloodied, some unconscious, some gasping and groaning in pain. A moan of dismay issued from Limloeth, and Legolas felt his throat tighten until he could not breathe. A healer glanced up and saw them standing at the edge of the awful scene, “You there, what ails her?”

Finding his voice (with great effort) Legolas said, “She was stabbed.”

The frazzled, anxious healer beckoned imperiously at Legolas to bring Limloeth as he shouted for another blanket to be laid on the ground. Lifting the cloth from Galadriel to examine the wound, the healer handed Legolas some bandages. “The bleeding has stopped. Just make sure the wound is clean and put the dressing on. I must see to the others. When you’ve done that, we need all the help we can get.”

Legolas nodded hastily and set about dressing his sister’s wound. He tried to blot out the sights and sounds of suffering all around him, and his hands trembled as he worked. Limloeth’s hand suddenly closed upon his as he finished fastening a bandage. “It will be all right, Brother.”

Swallowing hard, he murmured, “How many of our people are dead, do you suppose?”

“We will not know for some time yet. But you must accept that such things happen. It is the way of all warriors,” Limloeth was weak from loss of blood and laid her head back down.

Legolas nodded, “I know.” Finishing the dressing, he squeezed her hand and said, “I must help.”

“Go, little brother. I’ll be all right.” Kissing his sister on the forehead, Legolas rose and walked away to join the effort of caring for the rest of the wounded.

***

To Glorfindel, the next hours were a blur of anxiety and haste, as he rushed from warrior to warrior on the ground, trying to halt bleeding, bandage cuts, splint bones, and ease pain. The elf lord rose from bandaging a nasty stab wound only to race to the side of a staggering warrior barely able to walk for a broken leg. Carrying the warrior of Lórien to a blanket, Glorfindel made him drink some olgalas draught to knock him out, then set and braced the broken bone. No sooner had he done that than another healer shouted for assistance with yet another wounded warrior.

The moans of the wounded somehow seemed louder than the battle shrieks of the orcs. Glorfindel wiped sweat and blood from his face as he dosed another warrior unconscious, but the casualties kept coming, and the healers were running out of herbs. “I had hoped never to see such a sight again,” the Imladris elf murmured to himself as he stood wearily, gazing at the injured lying all around him.

“Glorfindel? Can you ride?” one of the healers shouted.

“Yes!” he called back, hurrying to see what was needed.

The tired, beleaguered healer waved a hand helplessly at the mass of injured elves, “We must have more olgalas draught, and healing herbs. In fact, anything that can be brought from Caras Galadhon would be of use. This was far worse than we had expected.”

*Someday I should like to fight a battle that turns out not as a bad as expected,* Glorfindel thought bitterly, whistling sharply for his horse.

The ride was long and hard, but not hard enough to distract the Imladris warrior from worrying about his comrades back at the edge of the woods. His arrival at Caras Galadhon brought a multitude of anxious elves rushing from their dwellings to hear tidings of the battle. It did no good to try and evade the truth. “The orc army is defeated, but there are many casualties,” he shouted over the chorus of questions. “The assistance is urgently needed of all those with healing skills, and all the supplies that can be brought.”

Forcing himself to ignore the cries of dismay and the rush of elves darting off in all directions to respond to his call, Glorfindel dismounted, intending to go for supplies himself. Suddenly several elves crowded near him gave way, and the warrior captain turned to see Lord Celeborn coming swiftly, yet calmly, towards him. “My lord?”

“Come, Glorfindel, I require a report,” the lord of Lórien said.

“I…” Glorfindel faltered, feeling anxiety, weariness, and frustration well up inside him. *There are dozens, perhaps more than a hundred wounded warriors on the border--I cannot simply stand here in the City of Trees and make reports!*

But the Imladris warrior could see that Lord Celeborn was not to be kept waiting, and so he followed Celeborn into a pavilion on the ground to speak. No sooner had Celeborn turned to face Glorfindel than the younger elf lord began speaking hastily, his mind only half on his words, “The orcs of Sauron had perhaps an entire legion, my lord. Over a thousand to be sure. We held them back from the barricades for some time, but when they broke through, our forces sustained heavy casualties. I estimate at least one hundred are out of action, with nearly every one wounded in some form or another, and things would likely have gone worse if the Lady Galadriel had not arrived--”

“You are very agitated, Glorfindel,” said Celeborn in an infuriatingly level tone.

Without realizing he was wringing his hands, Glorfindel snapped, “How can you not be? Do you not see what is happening here? The shadow grows even as our people fade, and now the creatures of Sauron seek to slaughter us along with all the free peoples of Middle Earth--”

“Peace, elf of Imladris!” Celeborn said sharply, raising a hand to cut off the tirade. The lord of Lórien took a single step forward and placed a hand upon Glorfindel’s shoulder. “If we allow ourselves to despair, all will be lost.”

Glorfindel forced himself to be silent and catch his breath. The images of his wounded kindred at last ceased spinning through his anguished and weary mind. Raising his eyes to meet Celeborn’s, he murmured, “When the Enemy rose to might before, the Last Alliance nearly did not succeed in defeating it. Now the race of men is scattered, and the Eldar are departing Middle Earth in droves, leaving those who remain to fade into forgetfulness. If the shadow rises this time, how are we to challenge it?”

“By never giving in, as you know perfectly well, my friend,” said Celeborn. Glorfindel looked away and smiled sadly, shaking his head. In the clearing at the center of Caras Galadhon, dozens of elves carrying bundles of supplies were mounting horses and racing into the woods. When he turned back to Celeborn, the elven lord gripped his shoulder one last time and released him. “Return to the warriors, and offer them what aid you can. Remember, Glorfindel, we must maintain their hope along with their bodies if we are to survive.”

***

A few days later…

The sun had risen upon a grim scene at the borders of Lothlórien, the day after the attack. The orc attack had been repulsed through the efforts of the warriors, and Lady Galadriel, but at a heavy price. Eighteen warriors had been slain, and thirty more remained gravely wounded. Langcyll of Mirkwood stood upon a bridge over a creek in the center of Caras Galadhon, watching the activity of elves in the sunlight, but his heart was heavy.

By some blessed turn of fate, none of Langcyll’s company had perished in the battle, though he had lost several friends among the Lórien dead. These next few weeks would be a time of great mourning for all the elves of Middle Earth, and messangers had raced away from Lórien to the other realms about the battle and its tragic outcome.

The company of Langcyll and Glorfindel was to set out again in a few days, with several warriors of Lórien. But Langcyll now faced a dilemma. Lórien had lost two of its captains in the battle, and several seasoned warriors. Thus their strength was diminished. After the forces of Mirkwood, Imladris, and Lórien returned to the plains, the forces of Lórien had intended to sweep south into Ithilien. But having lost some of their best warriors--they would need reinforcements.

*My company has been on the move for nearly three years,* thought Langcyll. *They are travel and battle weary. But some of them, maybe many of them, may wish to join the forces of Lórien on the mission south. If we go south all the way to the borders of Mordor, we may be gone for many years more. Perhaps decades more.*

It was not as if three years was a terribly long journey by elven standards; this one had just seen more action than most. Langcyll and most of the other seasoned warriors had joined missions that had lasted as long as sixty years, traveling all throughout Middle Earth back in the days even before the Second Age. *But I cannot be certain my warriors will wish to continue after seeing so much heartache. Perhaps it would be better just to return…though some of us may find heartache at home as well.*

The captain of Mirkwood watched his company mending arrows and whetting knives with Haldir and several of his warriors. Inevitably, his eyes were drawn to the fair-haired elves, though it took him a moment to locate Legolas among all the warriors of Lórien. Langcyll was convinced that he was regaining his objectivity where the son of Thranduil was concerned--and the approving glances he was receiving from Glorfindel confirmed it--but there was no denying the way his heart had clenched during the aftermath of the battle until he had at last found Legolas, unharmed and caring for the wounded.

*He will face the greatest trial of us all when we return to Mirkwood,* the captain thought. *I wonder if he would choose to ride south instead.* Hearing footsteps behind him, Langcyll turned and nodded to Glorfindel. The captain of Imladris joined Langcyll on the bridge and said, “Haldir asked my how my warriors were faring. He wishes us to travel south with them.”

With a nod, Langcyll replied, “He has approached me on the subject as well. Have you any thoughts?”

Glorfindel shook his head. “I find I cannot make such a decision without including my warriors. What think you? Shall we ask the company?”

Without removing his eyes from the warriors in the circle, Langcyll slowly nodded. “It is a heavy decision for each. I would know all their opinions before committing us.”

“Agreed. Perhaps we should speak to them now. All of them are present.”

Langcyll did not answer, but simply started off the bridge down to where the warriors were working.

***

Legolas had nearly fainted with relief when he learned that none of the warriors of his company had fallen, nor had any of his close friends been slain. Though the young elf had grieved deeply for the lost warriors--and was still grieving--it was offset by his knowledge that all of his company were on the mend and Limloeth would be recovered in a few more days. Scant consolation to those who had lost friends, he thought sadly.

“--of Middle Earth, have you, Legolas?”

Blinking out of his reverie, Legolas looked up. Galithil, still walking stiffly but much improved, had asked him a question. The other elves paused from their work and grinned at him. “Daydreaming,” Elladan observed, smirking slyly.

Deliberately ignoring the son of Elrond, Legolas raised his eyebrows at Galithil, who repeated (in a disgusting drawl), “I said you still haven’t seen much of Middle Earth, have you?”

Several of the elves snickered, and with a disgusted shake of his head, Legolas replied, “Nay, I suppose I have not. I would like to see more.” He caught Haldir looking rather thoughtful, but the captain of Lórien said nothing, so he dismissed it. “But even for so little time, we’ve seen a great deal in the past three years. You have been traveling for a century and you still encountered new things,” he pointed out mildly to Galithil.

“Aye, one can travel for four millennia and still not see all there is to see in Middle Earth,” Orthelian of Lórien agreed.

Faron nudged Legolas and said slyly, “Indeed, Galithil made quite a little discovery on this trip. She made friends with a dwarf.”

Several of the Lórien elves snorted, and most of the others just laughed. Langcyll and Glorfindel, coming up just then, grinned at the Lórien warriors’ reaction. “It is true,” said Glorfindel. “We spent many weeks in close contact with a dwarven company.”

Pausing from repairing an arrowhead, Haldir looked from one warrior captain to the other and--upon realizing that they were not jesting--demanded, “Why?” as though the idea were absurd.

“We shared the same road,” Glorfindel said with a shrug, sitting down and taking out one of his knives.

Rúmil of Lórien turned questioning eyes back to Faron, “So were you merely teasing Galithil or did she truly…make friends…with a dwarf?”

“I can speak for myself,” Galithil said haughtily. Lifting her chin, she added, “And yes, I did befriend one of the dwarven company. Sháin, son of Tili, was his name. I liked him.”

Haldir and the elves of Lórien stared at Galithil as if she had sprouted a beard, but Elrohir clapped her on the shoulder. “I liked him as well, Galithil. Do not let them tease you. I liked all of the dwarves--well, almost all of them.”

Haldir returned to his arrows with a shake of his head, but Glorfindel put in, “Do not dismiss it so readily, Haldir of Lórien, I too liked some of the dwarves. They came to our aid on several occasions, and showed friendship to many of our company. Although a few of us failed to benefit from the experience of knowing them,” he added pointedly. (Legolas and Faron had been rolling their eyes at each other.)

Orthelian had noticed and grinned, “So the wholesome company of the dwarves did not sit well with you, Legolas?”

Legolas simply jerked his head at his comrades with an expression that seemed to say “They are all mad.” Several of the Lórien elves laughed and clapped him on the back. Glorfindel noticed and thought, *Legolas certainly is at home here. He does seem sometimes very much like an elf of Lórien, not that it is surprising when one remembers he is half Galadhrim.*

As he continued fastening arrowheads to shafts, Legolas commented, “Galithil received a parting token from her dwarf friend.” He himself received a fierce glare from Galithil, and merely grinned at her, retaliating from all the teasing he had endured from her.

“Do not tell me,” exclaimed Orophin. “An axe!” A great burst of laughter came from the elves as Galithil turned up her nose at them.

Elunen came to Galithil’s defense. “I too enjoyed meeting the dwarves, Orophin, and the gift Sháin gave to Galithil was a gem of considerable worth, not to mention beauty. While some of them were…less than personable, most were as merry as hobbits. Sháin in particular was more generous with his wealth than a man, Legolas, you cannot deny it.”

Legolas raised his hands defensively. “I do not. It was a fair gift.”

“So dwarves and elves can become friends,” Elrohir said persuasively. “Perhaps if we had been in their company longer, some lasting friendships would have formed between members of our races. Come, Legolas,” he urged, seeing the prince’s resistance to the idea, “you cannot think after all that that Sháin would have turned on Galithil. I tend to think he was rather taken with her.” Galithil blushed.

Legolas shook his head dismissively, “Nay, I would not make such a prediction of Sháin. Perhaps it was possible in that instance for Galithil and he to remain friends, but I still think they were a fluke of nature. Dwarves and elves are too inherently different for such a thing to happen again.”

In the dwelling atop the highest tree, Lord Celeborn noticed Lady Galadriel watching the warriors below from the window. She could, of course, hear every word that was spoken. Though Celeborn had not been actively listening, he did notice at that same moment the slow smile that crept across his wife’s face, and the way her shoulders shook gently with a silent, knowing laugh.

***

On the forest floor below, Glorfindel noticed Haldir looking questioningly at him, and knew the captain of Lórien wanted to know if the warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood would be accompanying his war party on a long journey south. He caught Langcyll’s eye, and the other captain nodded, turning to the warriors, “My friends, as you know the warriors of Imladris, Mirkwood, and Lórien expect to depart soon. Now there is a decision to be made.”

The other elves ceased working and looked at him expectantly, with expressions ranging from curiosity to apprehension. Langcyll went on, “The battle and the…losses of our fellow warriors have reduced the ranks of Lórien’s warriors. They must send their patrols out to protect their lands, but also their borders here at home must be protected. Because of this, Lord Haldir has asked that the warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood join the party he is assembling to ride south in pursuit of the creatures of Mordor.”

Glorfindel took in the reactions of his company. Many of the warriors exchanged glances, trying to gauge each other’s feelings on the subject. Several looked speculative, others doubtful, but Legolas…*Legolas looks as though he has been praying for just such a reprieve.* Glorfindel mentally shook his head. *You cannot evade your father forever, young prince, and it is foolish to try. Thank the Valar I spoke to Langcyll when I did.*

But to Glorfindel’s surprise, it was Galithil who spoke first, “We have only been abroad for a few years, in spite of the number of orcs. And their scourge will never vanish if we do not fight.”

Slowly, Faron nodded, “I agree.”

The rest of the warriors began nodding as well. Langcyll and Glorfindel exchanged looks, then Glorfindel turned to Haldir, “Then we are agreed. The forces of Mirkwood and Imladris will ride south with Lórien.”

***

Legolas was dismayed to discover that Limloeth would not yet be released by the healers to return to her duties before the company departed. She would be remaining behind, but Orthelian would be riding with the company. Legolas could see that his sister was deeply grieved by what promised to be a long separation from both her husband and her youngest brother, though she hid it well enough in public.

Dawn broke on the morning the company was to depart with unexpected beauty, the sun’s first rays sparkling off the frost that covered the grass and golden leaves, turning the frozen mist drifting in the air to a veil of diamonds among the branches. Though Legolas knew it was just as cold here as some of the winters he had endured in the mountains, for some reason he did not feel so chilled in this place. *I will be sorry to leave it.*

The company had assembled their horses in the clearing at the center of Caras Galadhon, and many of the Galadhrim watched from the trees and on the ground as they prepared to ride. Haldir was now at the front with Glorfindel and Langcyll as leader of the Lórien warriors. Several elves of Lórien were riding with them, including Haldir, Rúmil, Maethor, and Orthelian. Legolas stood aside as Orthelian made his farewell to Limloeth, but found himself feeling twinges of jealousy at suddenly having to share his only sister‘s attention.

“Would that I were fully healed,” he could hear her murmuring, her forehead pressed against Orthelian’s.

“We must not dwell upon what cannot be, my dearest,” Orthelian replied, brushing his hand over Limloeth’s dark hair.

Limloeth was struggling to hold back tears, “You will be gone so long. There has been so little time since we wed and if you should not return--”

“Hush. You mustn’t have such thoughts, Limloeth,” Orthelian stepped back and gathered his wife’s hands in his, his gray eyes hard with conviction. “I shall return to you. Your brother and I shall ride together, and we shall both return. Even fifty years is but a twinkle to us.”

Raising her eyes to the sunlight beaming down through the gold and silver branches, the princess of Mirkwood sighed, “Perhaps it seems so to you, my brave-hearted warrior, but to me the time you spend away on your missions is twice as long as the longest moment when you are with me.”

“You are a warrior as well, my love.”

“And I am your wife. Either way, my place is at your side.”

“Not this trip. Come, my beloved, let us not part with sorrow. And you must still say your goodbye to our brother.”

Valiantly recovering herself, Limloeth came to Lanthir’s side where Legolas had been discreetly waiting. With a deep sigh, she stared at him, “And now I must let you go yet again. Ai, Legolas, why ever did I encourage you to become a warrior?”

Legolas had to grin, “I could not let you and my eldest brother have all the glory in the family, Lim. But do not despair, I have taken care of myself up until now, and I will carry on just the same. It is as Orthelian said, nothing shall reach us when we ride together.”

Urgently, his sister gripped his arms, “Protect each other, Legolas. You must both return to me; I could not bear to lose you too--” she broke off, her voice failing. Legolas did not speak, but merely crushed Limloeth to him. Limloeth had been the first of the House of Thranduil to learn of the deaths of three of their siblings in the fateful orc ambush, and Legolas knew how the thought of such a thing happening again terrified her. *If ever there was a particular reason to guard my hide, that is it. And also Orthelian. I must not allow Limloeth to lose another one she loves.*

The order had come to mount up. Legolas kissed his sister’s cheeks swiftly, embraced her one last time, then mounted Lanthir. Limloeth rushed to clasp Orthelian and kissed the Lórien captain passionately before stepping back from the company. Then Orthelian mounted as well, just ahead of Legolas, and the last remaining warriors bade farewell to their friends and loved ones.

As the company prepared to ride, Legolas saw Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel standing on one of the footbridges over the creek. Lowering the hood of her white winter cloak, Galadriel raised her hand in farewell, her eyes touching each of the warriors in turn. Legolas held his breath for that brief eternity when her gaze rested upon him. *I wonder, will there ever be a day when the mere sight of the Lady Galadriel does not render me immobile?*

He was jerked out of his reverie when Haldir gave the command to ride, and saw Faron--at his side as always--also blinking himself back to reality. The two young warriors grinned knowingly at each other as they rode in the formation over the bridge to the gates of Caras Galadhon. Just as the company passed through the gates, the son of Thranduil heard that unforgettable voice in his mind again.

*Farewell, Legolas of Mirkwood. We shall meet again.*

Instinctively, Legolas twisted around in the saddle and was just able to see Galadriel, her piercing eyes focused upon him. In his mind, he heard her say, *Remember the Mirror, Legolas. Remember that which I told you. Remember.*

Then the company followed the trail around a bend into the trees, and she was gone.

***

Several weeks later…

The company had made camp along the banks of the great Anduin. Legolas and Faron stood with several of the other elves, laughing as the horses played in the river. “We still have yet to finish our race, Legolas,” Elrohir said to him, smiling slyly.

“By the Valar, do not start that again!” groaned Elunen. “Last time, you two brought bad luck upon us with your antics.”

“We certainly did not cause the orc raid on the plains,” Legolas protested defensively.

“Well, perhaps YOU did to avoid the fact that Elrohir was winning!”

“Go hatch a dragon egg, Faron, you could not outride a hobbit!”

“Why you yellow-haired, scruffy-looking--”

“Who’s scruffy-looking?!”

“Peace, young ones!” Glorfindel ordered, as the other captains laughed. “There will be no racing again; we have enough troubles without worrying about lame horses or reckless riders getting themselves injured.”

“We are not reckless!” Elrohir and Legolas exclaimed simultaneously, causing a roar of laughter from the entire company.

Shaking his head and wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, Langcyll said firmly, “Enough of this silly competition. Those of you not on watch, either eat or get some rest. We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”

“A messenger comes!” shouted Rúmil from where he was standing watch with Orthelian.

The rest of the elves rose to see a small company of riders coming down the plain just above the bank of the Anduin. Legolas moved to stand beside Haldir and Langcyll at the front of the group, “The messenger bears the flag of Imladris.”

Faron, Elladan, and Elrohir hurried to the front, and Legolas and the others gave way for them. “I hope they do not bear ill tidings,” murmured Glorfindel.

“I think not; I see no pain in their faces,” Haldir observed as the messanger and his escorts drew closer. “Urgency, yes, but not sorrow. The message is something else.”

It did not take the courier long to reach the company. Despite Haldir’s assurances, the elves were tense nonetheless, wondering what would have brought a message from Rivendell all the way out here with such haste. Legolas did not know any of the couriers. The message-bearer dismounted and bowed to the captains, “My greetings, warriors. I bear a message from Lord Elrond to his sons, Lords Elladan and Elrohir.”

Elladan stepped forward and took the proferred scroll, then he and Elrohir stepped aside to read it. To the relief of all, no distress showed in their faces, though they did appear puzzled. The envoy of Imladris waited. After a moment, looking regretful, the sons of Elrond rejoined the others. “I fear this company must journey on without us, Glorfindel. Our father has ordered us home.”

Glorfindel frowned. “Did he give a reason?”

“He did, but not one that we are at liberty to share,” Elrohir sighed, then smiled ruefully at the group. “We must depart at once with the envoy.”

Dismayed by the unexpected separation , the warriors quickly said their farewells. Elrohir clasped Legolas’s arm firmly, “I fear we shall have to wait to test the prowess of our mounts, Legolas.”

“Safe journey, my friend,” Legolas replied sadly. “I pray that all is well with the House of Elrond.”

“Well, yes,” Elladan assured him. “It is merely a matter that requires our presence. I shall miss you, Legolas of Mirkwood. Be well, Faron. Take care of yourselves, both of you. Until we meet again.”

“Until then,” Faron said solemnly.

With that, Elladan and Elrohir mounted and rode away with the envoy of Imladris. Elrohir took the scroll from his twin, digesting their father’s message. “‘It is something to do with Estel. I wonder if Father has told him…of his lineage.”

“I know not, my brother, but I suspect we shall soon find out.”

“How soon will we home?” Elrohir asked the leader of the guard.

“Less than three months, my lord, if we ride hard.”

“Let us ride hard then.”

Back at the company’s camp, many of the warriors were also speculating as to their own road. “We are to ride all the way to the crossings of Poros,” Orthelian was telling Legolas and several of the others.

Galithil shuddered, “I have heard many tales of Emyn Muil and the Dead Marshes, none of them pleasant.”

“We shall travel on the west side of the Anduin until we are south of Nindalf,” Langcyll told her. “Then we will cross over into North Ithilien.”

Frowning, Legolas remarked, “Surely we cannot expect to do much harm to the forces of Mordor that close to their own land.”

“That much is certain,” Glorfindel agreed, coming to sit beside them where they had built a fire on the riverbank to drive out the winter’s chill.

“Then what is our purpose?” Faron asked in confusion.

His breath a soft fog against the gray winter sky, Haldir replied, “We gauge the strength of the Enemy, young one. And though we cannot single-handedly fight the forces of Mordor back over the Mountains of Shadow, the very presence of elves is repellant to them. Come, Faron, you have seen the power of Galadriel, and Lord Elrond. It is not merely by strength of arrows and swords that our lands shall remain free. We elves in ourselves have the power of spirit to drive evil back.”

The group was encouraged by his words, but just the same, Legolas idly sketched a map into the sand of the riverbank with his finger. “Through Emyn Muil and the Dead Marshes,” he murmured.

“And that is even before we try to pass through Ithilien,” Galithil observed.

Tracing a line down the sand-map, Legolas pulled his mouth to one side, “We shall be gone a very long time if we follow this path.”

Looking at the young warrior’s rough drawing, Haldir nodded grimly, “That is our road.”

***

Two years later…

“Naldin, son of Óin, welcome home!” Dáin, king under the mountain, announced as the company of Naldin and Sothi entered the great hall. Turning to one of the attendants, the dwarf king ordered, “Send for Óin and Dwalin at once, and inform all my folk that the company of Naldin and Sothi have returned at last!”

Naldin and Sothi bowed to the dwarf king and the rest of the company made their greetings. “Well, well, come in, be seated! I expect you’ve many tidings for us! It won’t take long to fetch the rest of our people here, not when they here you’ve finally made it back! We were beginning to think you’d all been lost!”

“It was quite a journey, my lord,” Sháin said with feeling, and many of the other dwarves laughed.

A great feast was prepared to celebrate the homecoming, and as Dáin had predicted, it did not take long for nearly all the dwarves of Lonely Mountain to assemble in the Great Hall. When Naldin and Sothi declared that Moria was vulnerable to be taken again by the dwarves, a great cheer went up. “There!” Balin, son of Fundin, shouted over the cries, clapping Dáin on the back. “Nothing can stop us from taking back what is ours! Come, my friend, you must give me your permission to lead a force of our people back to reclaim our old realm!”

Glóin, son of Gróin, rose hesitantly. “Is that a wise choice just now, Balin? We’ve only just established a stronghold here in Lonely Mountain; it will take much of our strength in guards to secure Moria again.”

Then Óin also rose, “I do not think we need deplete our strength here, Glóin. I will go with Balin, and only those of our people who wish to fight for our oldest and greatest realm need come. And we will not take so many that Dáin and Lonely Mountain are left unprotected.”

“How many, do you think, will be needed?” asked Dáin thoughtfully.

Stroking his beard, Naldin mused, “Perhaps if we take a well-seasoned force, with the proper leaders, we will not need quite so many. Ours was a company of only twelve but we took on many orc marauders without losing a single one of our number.”

“Aye!” Sháin rose and thumped the table with his ale mug. “And what better leaders could be needed than Balin and Óin together? Two of the famed company of Thorin Oakenshield himself! They alone will send half the orcs in Middle Earth fleeing in terror!” A great roar of laughter and approval supported his words, echoing through the great stone hall along with the banging of many metal mugs--and the splashing of ale.

Ori, another of Thorin’s folk, rose then and declared, “I, too, shall join this quest!”

Over the shouts of encouragement, Dáin stood, still looking doubtful. “The orcs of Moria may not have thought it worth their while to challenge your entry too much, Naldin. I worry that once they discover your intentions of retaking Moria, they will fight with all their strength. And remember, there are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world.”

The long stone tables grew quiet again, and many nervous glances were exchanged. Slowly, Balin stood once again and said resolutely, “My lord Dáin, I intend to try. It is sickening to think of the wonder of the Northern world inhabited by the foul beasts of Sauron. Come, Dáin, we have not trained and prepared all this time for naught. Give us leave, and we will make plans for a great quest. We will carry with us new armaments and as large a force as Lonely Mountain can spare. The doors of Khazad-dum will again be opened to us.” Óin and Ori also rose, silently backing Balin’s request.

The great stone hall was silent as Dáin sat back in his stone chair at the head of the table, musing quietly. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet each of theirs in turn, and slowly nodded. “If you are so determined, then I will not deny permission.”

All the dwarves of Lonely Mountain rose to their feet in thunderous cheers of triumph, many shouting their allegiances to Dáin and Balin. Then Dáin raised his hands to quiet them, “But, as you say, we must first make plans. I will not permit any of my folk to embark on a hasty quest without being fully prepared.” The other dwarves nodded quickly, and Dáin sat back down, satisfied. “Come, then, let us finish our feasting and tomorrow we will begin preparing for this great quest.” With a slight sigh, he added, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

***

Six years later…

Legolas scowled up at the blazing sun and wiped sweat and sand from his face. *I am beginning to miss winter in the mountains,* he thought.

The trip through Emyn Muil and the Dead Marshes had been as bad as his elders had predicted. The landscape was terrible enough in itself. As the company had moved further south, the plains had become starker, drier, with hardly a tree to be found. Emyn Muil had been an endless labyrinth of razor-sharp rocks, hard on the elves, agonizing for the horses. Alone and walking (and not hunting) the company might have made it through in a few months, but leading horses and seeking orcs, it had taken them nearly two years just to cross that seemingly-small stretch of terrain.

Nearly all of the horses had fallen lame at one point or another during the crossing--in fact, only Lanthir had managed to escape both falling on the treacherous ground or cutting his hooves on the rocks, for which Legolas was very relieved. The company had rejoiced when at last they had reached the Falls of Rauros, but their elation had been short-lived. No sooner had they passed over the last of those forlorn hills than they were set upon by a massive band of orcs and wargs.

Three of the company had been slain. Fanfirith, Nathron, and Glanaur, of the original company that had departed Mirkwood eleven years before would now never return. The company had faced a great dilemma then, of whether to continue on in spite of their decreased numbers--not to mention grief--or to turn back for home. After much consideration, they had decided to keep going.

That had been three years before. They had reached the mouths of Entwash just in time for the summer rains, and the many small streams flowing into the Anduin had overflowed their banks, trapping the company for six months with their backs to Emyn Muil until the water went back down and the land dried enough to pass over. It had still been a bitterly muddy trip, and the weather had turned cold before they were over the floodplain, making the situation still more unpleasant.

Now, the company stood on the banks of the Anduin looking over at Cair Andros, the place where the river split in two, becoming narrow enough for the company to cross over. The sandy islet in the center was dotted with a few trees, and would be just large enough for the company to rest their horses before swimming them the rest of the way across.

Beside Legolas, Faron was splashing water on his face, equally unused to such heat. “How soon do Langcyll and Glorfindel want us to finish this crossing?” his friend asked.

“Soon,” Legolas replied, seeing the two captains down near the water, trying to gauge its depth and speed. Raising his eyes to the opposite side of the river, the prince could just make out the shadow on the horizon that was the Ephel Duath range, the Mountains of Shadow, beyond which lay the land of Mordor. In spite of the sticky heat, he felt a shiver run down his spine.

Glorfindel happened to glance back and see the two youngest warriors watching him. He walked back up the sand to join them and gaze out at the distant mountains. “A foreboding sight,” he remarked.

The two nodded. Turning to Glorfindel, Legolas asked, “How far are we from Minas Tirith?”

Glorfindel walked toward the south, just past the trees, and pointed downriver. “The river bends, but we are almost directly north of the White City of Gondor. When we cross the river, we shall be in North Ithilien. We shall pass almost directly between Minas Tirith and Minas Morgul.”

Faron wrinkled his nose, “We are well into Gondor, but we have hardly seen any men.”

It was true, aside from a few scouts of Gondor and riding patrols of Rohan, the company of elves had encountered very few of this land’s native inhabitants. Glorfindel, Langcyll, and Haldir, on the other hand, had not seemed surprised. “The beasts of Sauron grew stronger with the shadow and overran this area long ago. Ithilien was once one of the fairest provinces of Gondor, but men will no longer venture there. You shall soon see why. We shall cross the river here before reaching some of the most populous of Gondor’s lands, otherwise we might see more men as we drew closer to Minas Tirith. Even so, most common men are wary of elves.”

Startled, Legolas looked at him. “Why?”

“We are strange to them, Legolas; men and elves do not interact as we once did.” With a slight smirk, Glorfindel added, “They are as wary of us as…some of us are of dwarves.” Legolas managed not to roll his eyes in disgust. *Will they ever cease goading me on the subject of dwarves?!*

Just then, Haldir and Orthelian joined them. “Langcyll thinks the horses are ready to continue,” said Haldir. “And I would like to be on the opposite bank well before sundown.”

With a brisk nod, Glorfindel called for the company to prepare to swim the horses across the last part of the river. It was the first merriment the warriors had enjoyed since before they crossed Emyn Muil. To effectively get both the horses and their supplies to the opposite bank, each rider packed their horse with what could be carried, then swam along side it.

Some had more trouble than others. “You wood elves should rename yourselves fish elves!” declared Faron as they crossed. It seemed that the two remaining elves of Imladris had the most difficulty with the swim.

Legolas and Orthelian, well ahead of him beside their horses, laughed as they stroked neatly through the water, their grip on the horses’ reins and their own supplies causing them no hindrance. “Poor little mountain elf,” Orthelian said loudly to Legolas, his breathing only slightly labored. “If he’s not on a horse, he’s lost!”

The curse that Faron was about to bestow upon Legolas’s brother-in-law was lost as a small wave broke over his head, and Legolas and Orthelian instead heard sputtering and gurgling that caused renewed laughter all around. Just ahead of them, Haldir and Langcyll gained the riverbank and turned back to assist the rest of the company from the water. “Is everyone faring all right?” Langcyll asked Legolas, giving him a hand out of the river.

“I fear Faron and Glorfindel are in danger of drowning,” Orthelian spoke up, and Langcyll grinned knowingly at Haldir.

Wringing water from his hair, Legolas grimaced, “I suppose we must build fires to dry everything off.”

“I fear so,” Haldir told him, “and it must be done before sunset so the fires do not attract orcs.”

“See to it, Legolas, Orthelian,” Langcyll ordered. Pulling faces at each other, the two did as they were bade, though not relishing the thought of adding more heat to this summer afternoon.

Once the fires had been lit, and the company was setting about getting their supplies dried, Legolas was certain he could feel steam rising from the clothes on his back. Noticing the Mirkwood elf’s discomfort, Rúmil grinned at him, “Just think, Legolas, we’ve still another two or three years of travel south at least.” He was rewarded by numerous groans from the younger elves.

“Ai, I had forgotten how much I disliked the southern summers,” Glorfindel said, fanning his face and swatting at biting insects.

“And Rúmil is right; this is nothing,” Langcyll agreed. “Remember the trip to Harad?”

Glorfindel winced as though the thought had made him physically hotter, “How could I forget? Ai, what a vicious journey that was. He speaks the truth, my friends, this is nothing compared to Harad. During the summer there, the sun beats down so that movement is impossible during the day. The land is a sea of blazing hot sand with no trees and only a few hidden lakes, closely guarded. Every drop of water is precious, and the only shelter is in tents. Even there, the heat is so great that it seems impossible to breathe and--”

By now, every elf in the company was cringing in horror. “May Harad be one land I never explore,” Legolas said fervently, closing his eyes in a mock-prayer. The others laughed.

“Fear not, Legolas, we shall still be well north of Harad when we turn for home,” Orthelian assured him, grinning. The elder elf gestured up the riverbank, “Up there is North Ithilien, that we shall pass through beginning tomorrow.”

Curiously, Legolas, Faron, and Galithil left the fires and climbed to the top of the bank. The Mountains of Shadow seemed much closer now, but it was the nearer land that caught the prince of Mirkwood’s interest. The gently rolling hills and fields and patches of forest struck Legolas with a sensation of great fairness, though it was clear that a sickness had taken this land. Everything seemed tinged with gray, and the black mountains held a definite aura of doom about them. The shadow of Sauron had taken this place, but somehow the land of Ithilien seemed to be stubbornly surviving beneath its cloud, refusing to die out completely. Though they appeared gaunt and gray, the trees lived, and though wilted and sick in appearance, the grasses still grew.

Sensing several of the other elves also joining him atop the riverbank, Legolas murmured, “The land of Ithilien has great resilience if Sauron’s shadow has not managed to destroy all life here after all this time. I think when the shadow of evil has gone, Ithilien will be a fair land again.”

***

Far away, unbeknownst to the company, the Lady Galadriel stood alone before her Mirror, gazing upon things that are. Specifically, she was watching them even as they embarked on the renewed journey south through Ithilien. The power of the Lady Galadriel is great, and she clearly heard the words of Legolas. With a knowing smile, she whispered, “You are wise beyond your years, young son of Thranduil. You see life and hope where others see only shadow. The Eldar are fading, but your time is just beginning.”

***

Seven years later…

“And here our journey ends,” declared Langcyll, pointing to the bridge spanning the narrow, fast-moving river before them. But the company was not to cross.

“The first half of it anyway,” sighed Rúmil, gazing at the dark mountains to the east.

Facing north again, Maethor of Lórien nodded, “Now we must cover all that ground yet again before we reach home.”

Turning his gaze from the rather dry, gray, cracked ground around them, Legolas asked absently, “Which?”

Looking over at him, Elunen blinked, “Which what?”

“We’ve warriors among us from Imladris, Lórien, and Mirkwood. Which of our realms shall we return to first?” Legolas elaborated.

Apparently, the question had not occurred to the other members of the company (though it had begun to occupy Legolas’s mind in recent weeks, as they drew closer to the place where they would turn back.) Thoughtfully, Haldir said, “Your people, Langcyll, have been abroad from your homes longer than the warriors of Lórien or Imladris. We will gladly accompany you to Mirkwood.”

For a split-second, Langcyll seemed to hesitate, thoughts running behind his eyes to swiftly for the rest of the company to read. Then his eyes seemed to rest upon Glorfindel when he said, “Very well, if our western kindred would be willing to travel home with us, Mirkwood would be happy to receive you.”

“Then it’s agreed,” said Glorfindel, rather briskly, as though a conflict had been avoided. What he meant by that, none of the others knew.

Galithil sighed dramatically as the company remounted their horses and turned away from the Crossings of Poros. “I shall be so glad to return home.”

“Is this the longest mission you have taken yet?” asked Faron.

“By the time we reach Mirkwood, it will be,” she replied. “Up until now I have kept homesickness at bay, but I fear it will attack with a new vengeance during these long years of travel still ahead.” Seeing the smiles of the elder warriors, she grinned, “I suppose I am still unaccustomed to being far from home.”

Maethor rode up beside them, “Be not ashamed, young Galithil, for there is not a one among us who does not long for home and family at some point of the trip. Sometimes even the shortest journeys seem to last forever.”

“Your father Eregdos was on the Lonely Mountain mission,” remarked Elunen. “I wonder how that went?”

“I know not, but I will be eager to hear the tales of those who were in Mirkwood while we were gone,” Galithil replied.

“I will simply be eager to sleep in a bed again,” sighed Faron, and the others laughed. “I miss beds more than anything else when we are abroad in the land.”

Laughing, Galithil said, “I miss feasts and games. At times it seems so hard to find merriment out here. And you, Legolas, what do you miss most?”

Thoughtfully, Legolas considered for a moment. “I miss books,” he said at last. “It is impossible to carry a book on a war party, and I cannot count the times I’ve longed for something to read.”

“Ai, I am of your mind, Legolas,” said Maethor, and several of the others nodded in agreement. “I miss books so much that I would read dwarvish.” Everyone laughed.

“And I miss the sound of the wind in tall trees. It has been fifteen years since we departed Lórien. We have not passed through anything resembling a forest.”

“I miss the light of our dwellings at night.”

“And I miss hearing the songs of our people.”

“Not to mention our families.”

***

Sixteen years later (thirty-four years after the war party of Langcyll left Mirkwood)…

“Shh! Don’t drop it, Faron!”

“Watch your step, Galithil!”

“Both of you, hush! You’ll wake him!”

(Giggle!) “This will be good!”

(Snicker!) “Are you ready, Langcyll?”

“Wait! Orthelian?”

“Hold on…hold on…”

(Giggle!) “Shh!” (Snort!) “Faron!”

“That was not me!”

“Shhhh!”

“Got it!”

“How by any holy did you manage it, Orthelian? Legolas sleeps more lightly than any of us!”

“Only a member of his own kin could steal both his knives without waking him.”

“Pfft, do not expect me to believe that, Lórien. What did you do, slip olgalas in his water skin last night?”

“Of course, I had no intention of getting myself stabbed just for this little escapade!” (Chuckle! Giggle!)

“Are you ready now?”

“All is ready! One…two…three!”

“LEGOLAS!!!” Splash!!

“Wha--” Legolas flew right out of his bedroll with a shout of alarm as a bucket of water was dumped over his head. Blinded by water in his eyes, the warrior’s hands flew for his knives--which were not there. Leaping to his feet, he found himself soaking wet, facing the entire company--all of whom were helpless with laughter. Wiping his eyes in astonishment, Legolas demanded, “What is the meaning of this?!”

Doubled over and clinging to Galithil for support, Faron gasped, “Did you forget what day it is?”

Legolas just blinked in confusion, and several of the elves burst into song--commemorating the coming of age. At last, his memory caught up with him, and he groaned. Although his Warrior’s Coming of Age had been recognized officially at the Gathering thirty-four years ago, today was the true date of his birth, and now he was both officially and literally an adult elf. “I had forgotten,” he admitted sheepishly, shaking his wet head, “but obviously someone here did not.”

Shaking with laughter, Langcyll informed his youngest warrior, “Very few of us forgot, and we have been planning this since we turned north again at the Crossings of Poros.”

Legolas groaned again, and the elves just laughed harder. Before he could make his escape, he was bodily hauled to the roaring campfire where an unusually lavish meal was handed out in celebration. “Where did you get all this?” Legolas demanded, though he did not turn down a slice of fresh bread.

Grinning at the son of Thranduil, Haldir replied, “Recall you the patrol from Lórien we encountered last week? They were more than happy to spare us some of their finer rations to in honor the last prince of Mirkwood’s Second Coming of Age.” Legolas shook his head and grinned, embarrassed at being the center of the company’s attention.

“Here, Legolas,” Faron and Galithil sat on either side of him and handed him a small, handsome wooden box. “From the both of us.”

Legolas took the gift but eyed his friends suspiciously, “Knowing the both of you, I would not put it past you to rig this thing to explode.” They both giggled, but motioned vigorously for him to open it. Cautiously, Legolas lifted the top off. His breath caught.

It was a book. “Where…where did you…”

“We bartered a cloak for it when we passed through that village back in Gondor, north of Minas Tirith,” said Faron, grinning at his friend’s stunned face. “We bound it up in a thick sack to keep it safe, and it will survive in its box during what remains of the trip back to Mirkwood. We were not certain if it was one you had read before, but Galithil did not think it would matter to you if you had.”

“It most certainly would not,” laughed Legolas. “I think I have forgotten how to read!” As the others laughed, he opened the book to its first pages. It was written in Westron. “It is a legend of Númenor,” he translated. “I have not read this one before.”

Langcyll grinned at him, “Now at last you will not be volunteering for every watch!”

Orthelian playfully shouldered Galithil aside so he could sit next to his brother-in-law and hand him a wrapped parcel. “Limloeth gave me this for you in case we were not returned in time for your coming of age.”

Curiously, Legolas opened the parcel and found a set of handsome leather wrist guards similar to those worn by all the elven archers, including himself, though these looked better made than his own. Impressed, Legolas tried them on and found that they fit his arms perfectly. Raising questioning eyes to Orthelian, his kinsman said, “They belonged to your brother Tavron. He left them to any younger brother of his who might become a warrior. Limloeth kept them for you.”

Legolas felt his throat close up, and his eyes began to sting. He could only manage a quick smile at Orthelian before Galithil said loudly, “And, we also have some wine, courtesy of our friends the Lórien patrol!”

The skin was passed around and Legolas took a rather large gulp. “Don’t get drunk,” Faron warned.

Legolas passed the skin on and shot his friend a withering look, then reached over and picked up his new book. “Now we will not get a word out of him until he has finished that thing,” observed Orthelian.

Nodding, Legolas replied drolly, “At least twice.” The others laughed, but a sound beyond the cheerful noises made Legolas freeze. He raised his eyes, listening for a second, then sighed and closed the book, popping it back into its box. “Orcs.”

“To arms!” shouted Haldir, and the company leaped to their feet.

“Well done, Legolas,” Langcyll said as they yanked their bows from their saddlebags and slung on their quivers. “You heard them even before the watchers did.”

“It must be my coming of age,” Legolas answered facetiously. He looked up at the stars. “This fight will be short. The sun will be up in an hour.”

“All the same, take care. We are too close to home for losing anyone to be conscionable.”

“Is losing anyone ever conscionable?”

“Pipe down, young prince, and make ready to fight,” Langcyll briskly gripped Legolas’s shoulder as they ran to join the rest of the group near the fire. “Here they come!”

***

As Legolas had predicted, the battle was short-lived. There were only about thirty orcs, and the party of ten seasoned elven warriors was more than enough to finish them off. As Legolas retrieved his arrows from various orc corpses, he thought, *This reminded me of that first night after we departed Mirkwood. The fight tonight was almost as one-sided.*

He turned his face to the east as the sky began to lighten, and his breath caught upon seeing a shadow on the horizon. He stood where he was, transfixed, as the sun rose higher, and the shapeless darkness in the distance suddenly took form--trees. Many, many, tall, dark trees. Faron walked over to Legolas’s side, gazing at the great wood barely three days’ ride away. “Mirkwood,” Legolas said softly.

“You will be home soon, Legolas.”

“Yes,” Legolas murmured absently. “Home.”

*Oh Tathar…*

*****

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Orthelian: Legolas’s brother-in-law, a captain of Lórien, husband to his sister Limloeth (also an O/C, but you know that by now. I hope.)

Maethor: High-ranking warrior captain of Lórien, father of Gaeriel (the she-elf Legolas bumped into during the last chapter.) No, there is still NO ROMANCE in this chapter! Fear not.


	17. All Things Must Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

Three days later…

The company reached the borders of Mirkwood with little fanfare; there were few elves living that far out. The warriors rode with an almost reverent silence under the forest’s dark canopy, barely able to see the sun peeking through the leaves far above them. But there was no mistaking the way the song of the trees changed as the company rode through; all the elves heard the sound of rejoicing in the forest’s voice.

Faron, riding at his friend’s side as always, grinned knowingly at Legolas, “The son of Mirkwood has returned.”

Legolas said nothing, just smiled back at him. In his mind, he thought, *Would that the son of Mirkwood could be as unconditionally glad of his return as the trees. At least this is a happy reunion.* Absently, he brushed a hand along the dark bole of a tree as he passed it, then smiled to himself. As often as he had tried to deny it during the trip, there had been many times he had felt painfully homesick. *You being one of the chief reasons,* he told the trees.

Legolas had had his misgivings as the company drew nearer to Mirkwood, but now there was no evading the reunions that would take place, and he was simply anxious to see his home again. Lanthir seemed to be of the same mind, and the horse’s strides beneath his rider were becoming restless. Just ahead of him, Glorfindel and Orthelian took notice and grinned. “Let us pick up the pace, Langcyll,” said Glorfindel. “I believe some of our company are growing anxious to return home.”

From the front of the company, Langcyll looked back over his shoulder at them and smiled faintly. “If we ride hard, we can reach the king’s halls in two days.”

In spite of himself, Legolas felt a shudder run down his spine at the mention of the king. *Still, there is no avoiding it now, and I’ve more than just my father to see at home. I have not seen my brothers or Eirien or my friends in a third of a century.* Aloud, he said, “The horses seem willing enough.”

Several of the others chuckled at him, and Langcyll turned to face the front, raising the flag of Mirkwood, “Let us fly then!”

***

Two days later…

The company’s passage by the first elven dwellings had spread the word of their return, and by the time they drew near to the elven king’s fortress, a great escort had grown, shouting and cheering in welcome. They were but a few miles from the palace when Haldir and Glorfindel and the other neighboring captains suddenly gave way, and turned to Legolas. “My lord,” Glorfindel startled him by saying. “It is fitting for you to ride at Langcyll’s side when you return.”

Legolas blinked, having not even considered that custom, and not entirely pleased by it, but Faron and Galithil began eagerly urging him forward, and so with a measure of reluctance, the prince of Mirkwood rode up next to Langcyll. A great cry went up from the crowd of elves riding and running alongside them when they saw their Prince take his place at the front of the war party, then the company rode on. Legolas wondered if any of his comrades knew how hard his heart was pounding.

By the time the war party rounded the last bend and beheld the great edifice of King Thranduil’s fortress, the crowd had grown to a throng, and hundreds of wood elves were awaiting them. Their banners held high (the flag of Mirkwood in front, followed by Lórien and Imladris) the company rode through the North Gate to the winding of many horns. As was to be expected, the royal party was waiting outside the palace to greet them. But nonetheless, Legolas felt his heart lurch at the sight of King Thranduil, standing tall and majestic in his spring crown, his dark eyes sweeping over the company to settle directly on his son. The prince barely heard the shouts of the elves.

“Welcome home, my lord!”

“He is returned, Prince Legolas is returned!”

“The son of our king is truly a warrior!”

The company dismounted and only memory reminded Legolas to hand Lanthir’s reins to one of the other elves--his horse looked equally startled at suddenly being led by an elf other than his rider. Forcing a calm, glad expression, Legolas stood at Langcyll’s side and bowed. Then King Thranduil approached.

*He looks older,* Legolas thought. *I have not been gone that long.* But it was true, Thranduil did seem to have aged, although this only caused his dark eyes and heavy features to appear still more intense. The king’s eyes rested upon Legolas for several disconcerting seconds, before he turned his gaze to the captain, “Welcome home, Langcyll of Mirkwood. Our entire realm rejoices at your company’s return.”

“We are pleased to be home, my lord.”

“Haldir of Lórien, Glorfindel of Imladris, the hospitality and gratitude of Mirkwood is yours. We welcome you and your warriors.”

“My duty to you, King Thranduil of Mirkwood, and the greetings of the Lady Galadriel.”

“And of Lord Elrond of Imladris,” added Glorfindel, with a bow.

The king nodded, then ordered the steward to see to the comfort of Mirkwood’s guests, and released the company so that the Mirkwood warriors might reunite with their families. “There shall be a feast tonight to celebrate your company’s homecoming, Langcyll.”

“We would be honored, my lord.”

Rather briskly, Thranduil said, “I look forward to hearing tales of your company’s travels, but now I will not keep you from your families.”

“Thank you, my lord. Until tonight,” Langcyll bowed, and the company dispersed.

Legolas knew he must go into the palace, but he could not make his legs carry him forward. He noticed Langcyll also hesitated, but then Glorfindel came up and expressed a desire to meet Langcyll’s family, and the archer captain nodded, shooting Legolas a very intense stare before departing. *He knows what this homecoming is likely to hold for me,* Legolas thought with a mental sigh, and followed the royal party into the palace, trying not to look apprehensively at his father. He could sense rather than see Thranduil’s eyes upon him, and for a moment, the king looked as though he was going to approach Legolas. Then he seemed to change his mind, and went to speak to the Steward about the evening’s banquet. King and Steward departed through a side door and Legolas breathed a heavy mental sigh of combined relief and regret.

“Legolas?”

He was jerked out of his tension when a familiar and very happy voice called his name. Startled, Legolas looked up and blinked. “Berensul!”

Laughing in delight, the eldest and youngest sons of Thranduil flung themselves into each other’s arms. “Did you think I would not be waiting for you?!” demanded Berensul, hugging Legolas until he gasped for air. “Ai, how I have missed you!”

“You’re breaking my ribs, Brother, leave off! I have thought always of you and all our family. Sometimes I missed you so much I thought I would go mad!”

“Fah, you were too busy winning glory for Mirkwood, from what I hear,” Berensul loosened his grip on Legolas and held him at arm’s length. “Look at you, the veteran warrior. I hardly recognize you!”

Raising his eyebrows, Legolas asked, “Is my appearance truly that different?”

Thoughtfully, his eldest brother replied, “Nay, not physically. But you do seem older. Perhaps more mature. We were wondering how different you would seem last week on the day of your birth.”

Legolas laughed, “So you remembered too.”

“Too?”

Pulling a face, the younger prince explained, “Let us just say my company enjoyed great merrymaking at my expense at the crack of dawn that morning.”

“Aye, indeed we did!” Orthelian said from behind Legolas.

Berensul let his younger brother go to clasp arms with Limloeth’s husband, laughing as he did, “Forgive me, Orthelian, I fear I was swept up in the joy of abusing my little brother again.”

“You needn’t apologize, my friend, I know it has been a long time. And you will be pleased to learn that we did arrange for some, ah, festivities to commemorate our brother’s coming of age,” Orthelian said, smiling slyly. “Is that not true, Legolas?”

“More true than you know, and I got very wet.”

Berensul laughed aloud, “Got you, did they? Good, I am glad you were celebrated--oh look, even fully of age, you still blush. Haha! In some ways, you have not changed, but for that I am glad, little brother.”

“And you have not changed; you still enjoy laughing at me,” Legolas said good-naturedly.

The brothers grinned and Berensul went on, “Come, there’s much to reacquaint you with. And acquaint you for the first time--Eirien? I believe introductions are in order!”

The Crown Princess, just as lovely as Legolas remembered, had been watching the exchange between her husband and brother-in-law with an amused smile, but at Berensul’s words she beamed and walked out onto one of the balconies, calling a name Legolas did not recognize.

At first, Legolas was confused, then his heart all but stopped when he saw Berensul’s proud smile and his memory caught up with him. “Oh no…” he whispered, a helpless smile coming to his face.

Eirien returned with an elf child in her arms, who looked comparable in age to a human around seven years old. “It is high time you were introduced to Mirkwood’s newest princess,” Berensul said, his eyes shining. “May I present my daughter, and your niece, Silivren.”

For a moment, Legolas could not speak at all, so intense was his emotion. *“Glittering”…* It was an appropriate name. The little girl, her pale arms around her mother’s neck, twisted to face the stranger before her. Her hair was a brilliant, sunny blonde, in natural ringlets to her shoulders, and her large eyes were an astonishing shade of pale blue, the color of the morning sky. She was only twenty-nine, still well-within her toddling years by elven standards, but at the same time, she had a definite regal bearing.

At last Legolas found his voice and his delight and pride overcame the initial urge to burst into tears. With a broad smile, he bowed deeply to the child, and said ceremoniously, “My Lady Silivren, I am honored to make your acquaintance.” Orthelian, equally dumbfounded by the little girl, followed suit.

Eirien bit her lip to keep from laughing, and Silivren cocked her head curiously, as though sizing him up. Keeping her amusement at bay, Eirien added, “Silivren, this is your uncle, Prince Legolas, and your uncle Prince Orthelian.”

*I am an uncle!* “Would you like to hold her?“ Berensul asked.

“I…yes,” he managed to say.

Silivren did not squirm or even appear nervous when she was handed to Legolas, but looked at his face with large, curious eyes. Eirien smiled, “She does speak, but at the moment I suspect she is shy.”

“One of many ways she reminds me of you,” Berensul added. Astonishment swept over Legolas again as he held the tiny, perfect little girl in his arms. He had always liked children, but had seldom had the chance to see or play with them in previous years, for elves did not have as many children as humans. (Indeed, by elf standards, Thranduil and Minuial had raised a small army.) And this was certainly the first time he had been witness to the rearing of a child in his own family.

Shaking his head and grinning at the child, Legolas said, “Limloeth told me Eirien was expecting when I was in Lórien. I am so happy for you.”

“She came in time for the birth,” Eirien told them.

Orthelian laughed, “Was she beside herself?”

“I know not,” Berensul chuckled. “I was engaged with my own hysteria at the time.” They all laughed.

“You look like me!” Silivren said suddenly. She had been staring at her uncle Legolas’s face all this time.

They all laughed. Berensul held out his arms (and Legolas somewhat reluctantly handed Silivren over) before saying, “I told Silivren she looked like one of her uncles. She could not wait to meet another member of the family who was not dark-haired.”

“I can think of no better name than Silivren, except perhaps Nimrodel,” Legolas said admiringly. Then he glanced around, “Speaking of her other uncles, where is Belhador?”

 

***

 

[ My dear brother,

I fear I shall be long since departed by the time you receive this letter. I shall regret leaving behind many things in Middle Earth, but most of all, that I shall not have the chance to say goodbye to you in person. Perhaps chance will let me encounter you on my journey down the Anduin. I shall visit Limloeth in Lothlórien on my way to the sea, and fate willing, I may yet see you one last time.

I know you will not understand my reasons for leaving. But the sea-longing has stirred in my heart, and it will not be silenced by any reason or tie to this world. If you are angry at my departure, I do not blame you, but please wish me well. I am going to the Undying Lands, and in spite of all I have tried, the call of the sea will not allow me to tarry. I think one day you will understand my decision, but I hope you shall never face it, for it is a painful, and ultimately impossible choice.

I pray that this letter finds you safely returned to Mirkwood and our family. I have missed you greatly, and my deepest regret is that I shall not see you again. I know you have become a great warrior, and I believe in the end you shall be the greatest of all our relations. My heart shall be with you always.

Be well, Legolas. Forgive me.

Your loving brother,

Belhador.]

 

Legolas had to read the letter three times before the meaning of its words registered. A feeling of shock and numbness overwhelmed all other emotion as he groped for some kind of explanation. Turning to Berensul, he managed to say, “And that is all? He just…left?”

Berensul nodded, sitting down in a chair next to Legolas in their brother Belhador’s empty chamber. “He departed over the sea, Legolas. He had gone West to Lindon to study the healing arts, and the smell of the sea captured him. I was surprised that he even managed the return home long enough to tell us that he wished to leave.”

Legolas was still reeling with disbelief. “He gave up everything, his studies, home, our family. All for the sea?”

“The sea longing is not a natural thing, Legolas, you have seen it stirred in our kindred before. It would have been cruel to try and force him to stay. Be not bitter,” Berensul put a hand on his shoulder. “You did not see his discomfort before he departed, but I did. The sea-longing is painful, my brother, and its call cannot be silenced by any rest or healing draught. He dearly wished to see you before he left, but we knew not where Langcyll’s company might be, and he could tarry no longer. Believe me, Belhador thought of you, and sorrowed at how you would grieve. But he could not stay.”

*He is gone. I shall never see him again.* “I do not understand this sea-longing that grips our people. I think it is a curse,” Legolas said, trying not to sound resentful. *I have lost my brother. He is not dead, but gone. Gone…*

“Perhaps it is, in a way, but it exists. I feared when I heard your company was to travel south that you might come too close to the sea, and depart without any of us having the chance to say farewell to you,” Berensul said.

Legolas looked at his brother in astonishment, “I would never do such a thing! How could any elf forsake his family, his friends, his life, without a word, simply for the sake of…of this…calling!”

Berensul chuckled sadly, “Belhador did not think you would understand. Nay, I am not sure I understand it myself. To understand it is to feel it, and I would definitely not chose to test my resolve or yours against the sea-longing.”

Legolas looked away, feeling bitter in spite of himself. *I knew I had reason to be uncertain about coming home. Now I fear to find out what else has changed. I have known for years Mirkwood would never seem the same without Tathar, but Belhador…my brother has gone! He has left us and I will never see him again!* Rising swiftly to his feet, he hurried out of Belhador’s chamber.

Going to his own was not much of an improvement. Nothing had changed. Nothing. There was not a speck of dust anywhere, and the windows appeared to have been opened every day during fair weather--just as Legolas always liked it. Still shaken by the news of Belhador’s departure, Legolas now felt simply confused. When so much of the outside world had changed, it threw off his mind to find that his own rooms had remained exactly as they were when he had left them so long ago. The prince sank onto his bed, feeling an almost overwhelming desire to cry.

The door opened--he had forgotten to lock it--and Berensul came in. Legolas wanted to ask his brother to leave him be, but his voice had failed him--for about the fifth time that day. Instead, he looked down, both unwilling and unable to meet Berensul’s eyes. His eldest brother’s hand squeezed his shoulder. “My first long mission as a warrior took me away from home for nearly twenty years,” Berensul said quietly. “When I returned and found that the world had turned in my absence, I too could not decide whether to laugh or cry.” There was a pause, then a faint chuckle, “You look like you are closer to crying.”

Legolas could not restrain a laugh at his brother’s remark, but it ended up sounding closer to a sob. Berensul said nothing more, merely squeezed his shoulder again. At last regaining some degree of control over himself, he murmured, “I knew better than to expect everything to remain as it was. Things were changing even before I left.”

“All things must change, Legolas. It is the way life is.”

***

“Legolas!” Legolas was coming out of the royal chambers when Faron came rushing up to him, a wild look in his eyes, with Galithil on his heels. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“I have only been seeing my brother,” Legolas said in amused confusion.

“Well, your kin must spare you for this,” Galithil said, no less breathless than Faron. “Guess what news we bring--oh, you never will, so we’ll tell you!”

Laughing with near-hysterical excitement, Faron cried, “It seems two of our dearest Mirkwood warriors have got themselves wed during out absence.”

“What?!” Legolas exclaimed, his melancholy forgotten. “Who?!”

“Merilin, Legolas! She was married only two months ago!” Faron was practically jumping up and down.

For a moment, Legolas could only gape. “Merilin? Married? But--to whom?!”

***

“Candrochon?!” The empty practice field, well outside the palace in a quiet clearing, rang with a sudden shout of astonishment followed by a long silence. By elven standards, Merilin and Candrochon were still newlyweds. And both they and Faron and Galithil took great delight in the utter shock with which Legolas took the news of their union. Once he recovered his voice, their friend seized both of them in a delighted embrace, “I do not believe it! It is wonderful!”

“Ai, how I wish you had returned in time, Legolas,” said Candrochon. “I should have liked you to have stood with me on our wedding day.”

“Believe me, I would have been honored and proud,” Legolas said fervently. “But who did, then?”

“Thalatirn, and we were glad of him. Tuilinn stood with Merilin,” Candrochon told him, his hand lightly clasping his bride’s. “It was a fine day. All we lacked was you, Faron, and--” he broke off quickly.

Legolas nodded, knowing all too well who Candrochon had been about to name. He was stubbornly determined that today would be a joyous reunion. *You would have been so thrilled at this news--ai, you would have been beside yourself. Had we both been here, I think Candrochon would have been hard-pressed to decide between us.*

“Come, come,” Merilin broke through his thoughts. “Do not be sad, Legolas, not today. There will be time for us all to mourn absent friends later. They would have wanted it so.”

She had read his mind. Legolas grinned, “You’ve not changed, Merilin.”

Candrochon gazed thoughtfully at Legolas, then grinned himself. “You have, but not so much as Langcyll seems to think.”

“No?” Legolas asked, surprised. “I feel changed myself…”

“Nay,” Merilin regarded Legolas for a moment, then shook her head. “You have gained much experience and many memories, but in essentials I think you are very much the same. Your heart and spirit are as good and noble as they ever were.”

“Ha! And you still blush!” crowed Candrochon, and the others laughed.

“I know, I have been reminded of that today already.” His friends laughed harder.

Galithil was thinking, a small, perplexed frown furrowing her brows, “But Langcyll thinks he has changed much?”

Merilin nodded; Langcyll had sought out his fellow warriors at once upon returning and had had a long conversation with her and Candrochon. Remembering what he had said when she had enquired after Legolas, she told the others, “He said Legolas had grown greatly in skill and strength--”

“--That at least is true.”

“Peace, Faron. Go on, Merilin.”

Looking speculatively at Legolas, Merilin went on, “He said also that you had been forced to harden, for you had seen far more darkness than any elf your age ought.”

“Hardened?” That assessment startled Legolas, but then he shrugged dismissively. “Very few things turned out as they ought to have done on this mission. No warrior anticipates the--things that occur during journeys such as that.”

“I think it is Langcyll who has changed the most,” Faron said softly, his voice sad.

Merilin and Candrochon raised their eyebrows, and Legolas agreed grimly, “He was discouraged from the beginning by how badly the mission was going, and by how strong the shadow had grown. But he truly has not been the same since…Glanaur fell.”

“One cannot blame him,” said Galithil sadly. “He and his cousin were as close as siblings, and Langcyll has been fighting since the First Age. He is one who has truly seen his share of darkness.”

Legolas leaned back against the bole of a tree, his eyes downcast, taking comfort in the familiar-scented breeze of his home. “Langcyll has lost many comrades in his day. Three warriors of his generation fell at the border of Lórien thirty-one years ago. All three were his friends.”

Merilin winced, “I had forgotten you were in that battle. Orcs have attacked the Golden Wood in force twice since then.”

“So we heard,” said Faron. Looking uncomfortably at the others, he said softly, “How do you suppose he faces it? Time and time again…he has lost so many friends, and many of his own kin. I wonder after so much time and so much darkness…how he finds the will to go on?”

A painful silence settled over the training field, and for a long time none of them spoke, as though realizing for the first time how little sorrow they had truly had to endure. “Ai…”

***

“I know what you are thinking, Langcyll.”

“Indeed, Glorfindel? I doubt that,” Langcyll, seated alone on a flet outside the palace, did not take his eyes off the forest. It did not take the wisdom of thousands of years for Glorfindel to see that the song of the trees no longer comforted Langcyll as it once had.

*He found no joy in this homecoming. It is as I feared.* “Langcyll, you cannot let your heart wither now that you have come home. There shall be many other novices--”

Langcyll shook his head suddenly, “Ai, Glorfindel, do you think my sorrow is due only to Legolas? Would that it were so, for then I might have cause to hope for my recovery. Nay, my friend,” he turned to face Glorfindel, and the elf lord winced inwardly. Langcyll’s always-dark eyes were shadowed, and the bright, alert sparkle had gone. “What has and will transpire with Legolas is but a drop in a great river that can no longer be dammed.”

Glorfindel was silent, his heart heavy, as Langcyll turned away again, releasing a slow sigh that seemed to come from deep within him. “It is too much, Glorfindel. I had only just come of age when the Enemy began his first rise to power. I beheld great shadow and sorrow, and saw both of my brothers and a nephew slain at Mount Doom, along with countless friends. When it was over, my one prayer was that Middle Earth would never face such black times again.”

“I remember,” Glorfindel said quietly. “And I recall making just such a prayer myself. Alas, fate has its own reasons for what comes to pass.”

“My sons departed over the sea just before the last Gathering,” Langcyll went on. “Glanaur was the last family I had, here or anywhere. And you are right, though I cherished Legolas as utterly as my own children…he is not. And now that we are returned, I have no call to keep him in my attentions.” His eyes, meeting Glorfindel’s again, were utterly without hope. “I have no one, Glorfindel.”

The forest was quiet, even the leaves seemed hushed, as though aware of the fading of one of its people. Glorfindel sighed to himself. *The sea-longing is not all that drives elves from Middle Earth. I have seen many of our generation thus diminished. One can only face so much fear, blood, death, and sorrow before hope is worn away.*

Aloud, he asked, “What do you intend to do?” even though he suspected he knew.

Taking a deep breath, Langcyll said, “I have no heart to continue as captain of Mirkwood’s warriors. I shall seek the king’s leave to depart this realm, as soon as another is chosen to take my place. It shall be Eregdos, I imagine. I hope to leave within a few days.”

“Where will you go?”

“I know not. But in the fullness of time, I suspect I shall arrive at the Gray Havens, and go to where my family now resides.”

Glorfindel did not attempt to protest; he knew it would be futile, and Langcyll’s voice at last had ceased to sound lifeless. But in his mind, he berated himself, *I should have seen it sooner. His attachment to Legolas was but a symptom of the greater ill. Middle Earth will lose a great and wise warrior with Langcyll’s going. Would that I were able to delay him. But I’ve neither the means nor the fortitude to try to hold one here whose heart has already gone.*

***

*I cannot avoid this forever,* Legolas told himself despite the quailing of his heart. *Perhaps it is best just to get it over with.*

He had managed to convince himself back in his own chambers, but as he walked back through the palace, it had suddenly dawned on Legolas: seeing his father would mean going into the caves! *Ai, Tathar, you would laugh at me now.* Legolas had asked Faron to accompany him at least to the king’s throne room, but Faron had firmly told Legolas he must do this alone (though Legolas suspected Faron would have been more willing had the throne room been in the outer palace. *Still, I suppose I cannot blame Faron. He has the same reasons as I for despising caves. More than I, really. Indeed, I can hardly believe I myself am doing this!*

The wood and marble wall of the outer palace ended in a great open green, down the center of which flowed the Forest River. On this green, many tables and decorations were being set for the evening’s feasting, to be held under the stars in the warm spring air. The green ended in a steeply-rising slope that was one of the tree-covered mountains in that part of Mirkwood--though these mountains were not nearly as tall as the ranges over which Legolas had traveled with the company. A sturdy bridge at the end of the green passed over the river, leading straight into the great, yawning cave mouth that had always terrified Legolas as a child. (His brother Belhador had once told him that the cave was actually the mouth of a giant animal that sometimes swallowed the elves who went in so that they would never come out, that childhood taunt being one of his many reasons for fearing caves.) Great beeches covered the mountain slope until the nearest seemed to have their feet right in the swift stream of the Forest River, and between them two grand, sturdy gates hewn of iron (made by dwarves many millennia ago) stood open to admit audience-seeking elves.

All in all, it was not as bad as Legolas had feared or vaguely remembered. Torches hung closely along the walls lit the corridors well, and they did not delve so deep underground. The air was far cleaner than Legolas recalled from his childhood escapade in the dungeons, or from the cave where he and Faron had been trapped three decades before. Perhaps if his visit had a less difficult purpose, he would not have minded this cave much. But being below ground only succeeded in unsettling him further, and by the time he came in sight of the doors that opened on the king’s halls, Legolas was suffering from an acute crisis of nerves.

The doors were closed, and the few seconds it would take Legolas to declare his presence gave his mind far too much room to imagine the conversation that he was about to have. Just as courage began to fail altogether, and he was about to bolt, the doors opened on their own.

“Prince Legolas!” the herald announced even before the doors were fully ajar. Legolas found himself gazing into a very grand hall with pillars hewn out of the living stone, much greater in size than the throne room in the tree-palace outside. There were several attendants in the high-vaulted hall, and at the end, on his throne of carven wood, sat King Thranduil, his black eyes fixed at once upon Legolas. There was no escape now.

The king elven king rose, his expression very guarded, and Legolas felt his heart pounding wildly in his chest. It was all he could do to bow smoothly. “Well, my son, I had begun to wonder if you would ever trouble yourself to greet me.”

This meeting was not beginning well. *Elbereth give me strength…* “My apologies, my lord,” Legolas said with careful formality.

Thranduil beckoned his son closer (he was still standing just within the doors) and Legolas approached the throne, with a strange calmness of one who walks to his own execution. *In another moment, he will dismiss everyone and have me alone. Ai, I should have spoken to him that day on the plains, rather than give his anger thirty years to grow. What a little fool I was!*

But there was no erasing the past, and Legolas was now about to face the outcome of his choices so long ago. King Thranduil turned to the servants, opened his mouth--and the doors opened. “Lord Glorfindel of Imladris and Captain Langcyll of Mirkwood!” The tension between king and prince had not gone unnoticed, and the herald stuttered slightly.

Legolas turned swiftly, knowing there was no chance that he could hide his emotions and preferring that Glorfindel and Langcyll saw his relieved face rather than his father. Glorfindel looked as though he wanted to groan, and Langcyll too looked chagrinned. *They did not know I was here or they would never have come.*

“Forgive us, my lord,” Glorfindel said in clear dismay. “We had, ah, we had hoped to speak with you before the banquet, but--”

“Not at all, Glorfindel.” Legolas stiffened in surprise at his father’s words. “If you have come before me together, it must be a matter of some importance. I will see you. That is, if you’ve no objections, Legolas?” It was not a question.

“Nay, Father, it can wait,” Legolas said faintly, relief and now confusion were making him dizzy. Managing to maintain some control, he bowed to the elven king and walked quickly from the halls, nearly gasping with relief when he departed from the cave and found himself on the bridge over the river once again.

For several minutes, he stood right where he was, breathing in the clear spring air. The area about him was quiet, but for the flow of the river and the songs of birds in the trees. The trees. *How I have missed you. How could my father have forsaken you to dwell underground like a dwarf?*

When the worst of the inner tremors had faded, Legolas walked off the bridge and leapt into the branches of the nearest tall elm, climbing high into its green crown and then made his way back to the outer rooms of the palace via the treetops.

***

“Can’t catch me! Can’t catch me!” For so small an elf, Silivren was quite nimble, not that Legolas could not have caught her. If he wished to. And as Eirien had predicted, it took the little girl barely a few hours to warm up to her new uncle.

“Now come back at once, daughter of Berensul! This behavior is quite unbecoming a young lady--where did she go! I cannot see her, perhaps I must call her mother--AHA!!! Got you!”

SHRIEK!!! (Giggle! Giggle!) Squeal! “Leggo, leggo!”

“You are my prisoner now, little elf! Hahahahaha!! No, you cannot escape--ow!” Legolas rubbed his shin as a giggling Silivren ran to hide under the table in a room that had been assembled for her to play in (filled with especially sturdy or worn furniture.) “Ai, Berensul, she will be a warrior like you.”

Berensul put his hands on his hips, bending down to make eye contact with the child beneath the table. “For shame, Silivren, are you abusing your uncle already? He’s only just returned from his adventures abroad!”

“Very true, Silivren, you should have waited at least a day to begin giving me bruises, like your father would have.”

“Adventures?!” the curly-headed child popped out from under the table and flung herself into Legolas’s lap, nearly knocking him over. “Tell me! Tell me!”

Standing in the doorway, Eirien laughed, “You see, Legolas? She is more like her father than you can imagine.”

“Nay, I can imagine all too well. Peace, little one, I have been gone since before you were born! How could I tell you all I have done?”

“Tell me anyway, Leg’las!”

“Hmmm, perhaps if you are very good, I will tell you of the time I was lost in a cave with three dwarves…”

“Yes? Please? I’m good, very good! Please, Leg’las!”

Legolas glared past her at Berensul, who was taking too much interest in his daughter’s name for his youngest brother. *I will let her call me that--him I will trounce if he dares it.* Pointedly ignoring Berensul, Legolas stood up and settled himself on a couch, pulling Silivren back into his lap. “Very well. I suppose you are good enough. We were high, high in the Misty Mountains…hunting…ORCS!!!”

SHRIEK!! (Giggle!)

Legolas got all the way to the part where he and Faron discovered the dwarves (with the tale properly embellished for Silivren’s fancy) when Eirien came to get Silivren ready for the banquet. “But Uncle Leg’las isn’t done with the story yet!” the child protested vigorously.

Laughing, Legolas handed her over to her mother, and promised, “I will finish the story later, Silivren, I promise. Go with your mother now.” He grinned helplessly as the little elf waved wildly at him as Eirien led her from the room.

“Legolas,” Berensul’s voice sounded strangely hesitant--as unlike him as a fit of temper was for Legolas. “You were not in Father’s throne room long.”

Legolas walked to the window and gazed out at the forest, lit red by the sunset. After a moment, he pulled his mouth to one side in a faint grimace, “You mean to say, not long enough for us to have had the violent quarrel that has been brewing for thirty-four years.”

“You cannot avoid him--”

“--forever. Peace, Berensul, I know this. And if you must know, I did not end the interview myself.”

“What happened?”

With a little shrug, he turned back to his brother, “Glorfindel and Langcyll arrived; Father chose to hear them first.” He chuckled dryly, “Probably a wise choice.” Berensul stiffened, and Legolas felt a surge of alarm, “What?”

“I do not know. Perhaps you know better than I what ails Langcyll,” Berensul’s dark, knowing eyes stripped away any illusions Legolas had had about the purpose of an official visit by the two captains to the king.

The younger prince closed his eyes, feeling sorrow surge through him anew at the inevitable truth, “Langcyll is fading. This journey wearied him, and the loss of Glanaur…” for a moment, his throat tightened so he could hardly speak. At last he forced the words out, “Now he goes before the king with Glorfindel of Imladris as a witness. Such an interview can mean only one thing. Langcyll is stepping down.” He was forced to look away hastily.

He heard Berensul come closer behind him, “All things must change--”

“--It is the way life is,” Legolas finished, laughing bitterly. “But that does not diminish the pain. I begin to wish I had not returned.”

“Do not say that!” Berensul exclaimed, seizing his little brother’s arm and forcing Legolas to face him. “You cannot endlessly run from your troubles, Legolas! It is foolish, and in the end it is useless. For they have a way of following you.”

***

Then banquet celebrating the company’s arrival was a bittersweet affair. By nightfall, rumors that the renowned and much-loved captain of Mirkwood was resigning his position had spread to every elf in the palace.

The feast was one of special magnificence even by elven standards. Greedy as some might call him, King Thranduil certainly was not stingy toward his own people. Great stores of fine food and wine were opened, and the long tables set with great elegance. Silver lanterns were strung through the surrounding trees, bathing the banquet in a light that reminded some of Caras Galadhon. There was festive music and song, and many exciting tales to be told.

But in spite of all the splendor, the expected announcement by Langcyll had cast a shadow over all. And as if that were not enough, no one had missed the tension between the youngest prince and the king, casting a still-greater damper on things. Nonetheless, a conscious attempt was made by all to be merry. Faron caught Legolas’s arm as the prince when to take his rightful place near the head of the table beside Thranduil. “Have you seen all the food?”

“I did not need to; the smell alone is enough to drive me mad,” Legolas whispered, grinning.

“Ai, it is true,” moaned Galithil. “I can smell spice cakes!”

The other two also groaned in anticipation, and Faron added, “I wonder if such richness after subsisting on lembas for so long will make us sick?”

“I know not,” Legolas snickered. “But I fully intend eating myself ill, so it matters little.”

Galithil giggled, “Such deliciously guilty pleasure after such abstinence, indulging in this matter seems almost…”

“Obscene!” Legolas finished, and the three struggled to stifle their laughter. A quiet chime sounded. “I must go. Enjoy yourselves.”

“Ai, believe us, we shall,” Faron said gleefully as he and Galithil departed for their seats at another table. *That will be the fun table,* Legolas thought rather crossly as he went to sit with the lords.

Protocol required Legolas to be at his father’s right hand, but his tension at that place was lessened when Langcyll sat across from him. Legolas seized every opportunity to catch his captain’s eye, but to his dismay, Langcyll avoided his eyes just as often. *Delaying the inevitable,* he told himself dismally, but was unable to kill that one flicker of hope that he might yet somehow convince Langcyll to change his mind.

The company of Langcyll, and the warriors of Imladris and Lórien, were greatly honored that night at the banquet. Songs were sung in praise, and one lament for those who had fallen: Glanaur, Fanfirith, Nathron, and Tathar. When that song was ended, the elves fell silent, and Legolas saw King Thranduil catch Langcyll’s eye--specifically, giving the captain a barely-perceptible nod of permission. Langcyll rose, and all sound and movement ceased. Legolas felt frozen. *No…no…*

***

As Langcyll rose to speak to the assembled elves, he told himself firmly, *I must not let myself be swayed by Legolas. This no longer concerns him.* Aloud, he spoke calmly, “My friends. We have returned at last from a long and hard mission. Four of our comrades fell in battle, but we fulfilled our journey. Now many of our warriors have returned for the spring festivals.” He took a deep breath. “Now is the best time. It is the time for change.”

A flicker of movement across from him caught his eye; Legolas had winced. No one else save Langcyll noticed. “My lords and ladies, I have served the warriors of Mirkwood faithfully since my coming of age, a very…long time ago.” He was answered by weak chuckling. “I have trained many of our novices in the defense of our realm, and fought in many battles.” There was barely a sound. Many of the elves were holding their breath. “I regret to announce that this mission shall be my last. I have chosen to step down as archer captain of Mirkwood. I shall depart from this place for the Grey Havens tonight.”

There was absolute silence. There was the sound of more than one breath caught in a stifled sob. Legolas was completely motionless, his face pale, his eyes wide, reminding Langcyll of when the prince had been a timid, uncertain novice. Despite the tightness of his throat, Langcyll continued, “I have no regrets at this parting. I am leaving behind a valiant and brave force to defend this realm, under the leadership of Eregdos of Mirkwood.”

His eyes downcast, Eregdos rose and bowed to the assembly. Langcyll’s friend had fought vigorously against the captain’s decision, but when Langcyll had refused to reconsider, Eregdos had at last consented. He discreetly scanned the tables, seeing intense grief on many faces but no obvious resistance to his choice. “I am honored to have traveled and fought with these warriors. I am honored to have served and defended our homeland. I bid you all a very fond farewell.”

***

The banquet was over. Many of the warriors of Mirkwood had broken down and wept as Langcyll departed in the way of elf warriors--quietly, with no fanfare or prolonged farewells. King Thranduil lingered near the head of his table long after all the elves had gone and only moonlight lit the green. He was paralyzed by indecision.

*Perhaps I should go to Legolas so we can speak now. Yet this news cannot fail to have grieved him, and I made the mistake long ago of trying to barge in on his sorrow. But we must talk, and the sooner the better. Perhaps these circumstances will ease the discomfort.* Feeling unpleasantly tense, Thranduil reached for a flagon of wine that had not been cleared, then changed his mind. Better to face this with all his wits, and he had drunk a great deal at the banquet already. He went to the royal chambers in the outer palace and, almost as an afterthought, knocked on his son’s door. Hearing Legolas’s acknowledgement, Thranduil opened the door and quietly came in.

Legolas was standing by the window, his room lit only by the moonlight and a few candles. He had not changed out of his formal clothes, and though his face was turned away, Thranduil could see him in the reflection of the glass. The young warrior had not wept, but his face was a mask of anguish, and he looked rather tired. It had been a long day for them both. Thranduil hesitated, uncertain of how to begin this, but Legolas took a deep breath and turned to face him, “Father. If you will forgive me…I fear I am not in the best mind to…speak of why I came before you this afternoon.” He raised hesitant eyes to meet the king’s, “Might I come before you tomorrow?”

Thranduil faltered, his mind racing. *It used to be that I always knew exactly what to say to him. Now I cannot begin to understand his mind. Will he not let me in again? I cannot bear this silence from my own child, this mistrust. Will he not speak to me?* He took a few steps forward, forcing his voice to be calm and unchallenging. “I understand. I too am grieved by Langcyll’s departure. But perhaps we might still talk…”

Legolas flinched as though the words of Langcyll’s leaving had physically stung him, and hastily turned his head away from his father’s intense eyes. “Please. I cannot. Not now.”

*Why?! Why do you insist on tormenting me this way? Why do you shut me out?* Thranduil fought to keep frustration and anger from getting the better of him. *Nay, that is unfair; he is upset. I should not push him to share his feelings--yet it has been thirty-four years! So long since I have seen him, talked with him! He left me without a word, and yet I come to him as though begging his forgiveness! It is he who--I must be calm. It will not do to alienate him.*

“Legolas,” fighting to keep desperation from his voice, the elven king walked to his son’s side and placed a hand upon his shoulder. Legolas did not flinch away, but he went completely rigid. *Why?!* “I know you are upset. I know you’ve no wish to speak of…other matters tonight, but this…perhaps I might help.”

The shoulder beneath his hand did not relax. Legolas closed his eyes and swallowed. “Father, I know you mean well. And perhaps we might talk of…other matters, and Langcyll also, at some time soon but now, there is no one who can help. Please,” he turned to face his father. “Let me be alone tonight. I must face my sorrow myself.”

Frustration welled up in Thranduil like water in a geyser, beginning to boil with resentful anger. *This is spite. He does this deliberately to hurt me, knowing how I wish to speak to him again. Does he think me a fool? He avoided me then and he shuts me out now, treating me as a stranger! I have made mistakes, yes, but I have done nothing to deserve this mistrust!* He no longer had any desire to speak or attempt to comfort Legolas. Nodding stiffly, he replied, “As you will,” and departed the room.

***

Legolas winced as the door closed rather hard behind the king. It had taken all the will he had not to disgrace himself, but the minute the door closed, he buried his face in his hands and choked on a sob, stifling his tears frantically lest his father hear him. Thranduil had sounded angry when his son had refused. *I did not mean to push him away. But I cannot speak with him tonight, not like this, when the whole world seems twisted and confused. Surely he would grant me time alone, time to think and…understand what has happened. So much. All in the one day since we returned. Nothing is the same anymore. Nothing!*

He paced restlessly back and forth in his chamber, feeling a wild tempest of emotions inside that refused to stop their spinning and give him peace. *I lost Tathar. Now Belhador has gone and Langcyll is leaving. Orthelian will go back to Lórien soon and Elbereth only knows when I will see Limloeth again. Two of my friends have wed and Faron will go soon and Haldir and Rúmil and all the others…what shall I do? What am I now?*

His mind came again and again to the knowledge that Langcyll was probably preparing to depart at this very moment--alone, as was customary for a resigning warrior like him. The farewells had come as half-hearted good wishes and hand clasps at the banquet, but that would not seem enough to any warrior who had ever served under Langcyll of Mirkwood. *Him too I will never see again. After all he has taught me, all we have been through, am I truly supposed to let him depart this way? I cannot make him stay, but surely I might say more to him than the two words we spoke after his announcement.*

Now his heart was beginning to leap in his chest. *I owe Langcyll so much. I should not let him go in this manner, without thanking him as I should. I cannot…I must not!* He threw open the window to the balcony and leapt to the nearest tree branch, descending swiftly to the ground and racing away through the palace grounds toward the outer gates.

***

Langcyll was alone in the stables, readying his horse. The forest was dark and very quiet, there was not even a wind tonight. *I will feel better for it when I have put Mirkwood behind me,* he told himself. *Nothing remains in this realm for me. The last of my novices have grown and become true warriors--I can no longer claim any excuse to look after Legolas. Especially since he no longer requires looking after. And my king…* he sighed, and admitted a bitter truth that he had tried to deny to himself. *I should have left sooner but for Legolas. But now he is grown and able to survive adversity on his own. I can no longer serve a king whom I partly despise.*

The rather low esteem in which Langcyll held Thranduil was not merely due to Legolas, but to the king’s love of wine and wealth--something the warrior captain had never understood--and his ill turns toward the dwarves when Langcyll had been much younger. When Legolas had elected to become a warrior at his first coming of age, Langcyll had taken it upon himself to see that the young prince received good principles and training that might avoid Legolas turning into a noble of similar temperament to his father. *Ai, Glorfindel was right; I interfered. Though I had no right, I did. As long as I stay, I will be tempted to interfere. I must go.*

He was about to lead his horse from the stable when he heard someone come in, and an elf cleared his throat. Langcyll faltered on seeing the silhouette in the doorway of the stable against the moonlight. It was Thranduil. “My lord,” he bowed. “I was about to depart.”

The elven king stepped aside, and Langcyll led his mount from the stable, glancing cautiously at the king. He seemed tense and rather agitated, and Langcyll’s sharp senses detected a familiar scent. Thranduil had been drinking wine; he was not drunk, but not entirely unaffected either. “Well, Langcyll, it appears this is our final farewell.”

“Indeed, my lord,” *Be calm, be courteous, and get out of here!* “I take my leave of you, my king, with no worries for our realm’s safety. Eregdos is a wise warrior and he shall lead your forces well. I would never permit Mirkwood to have any but the best leading her protectors.”

Thranduil nodded absently. “Did my son bid farewell to you?”

*Ai, I do not like the turn of this conversation!* “Yes, my lord, all the royal children present gave me good wishes.”

The king’s eyes were smoldering with a suppressed, frustrated anger that raised hackles for Langcyll immediately--this look meant danger for whomever it was directed at. And it was not directed at Langcyll. He felt a surge of anger of his own and tried to force it down; there was enough fuel on this fire as it was. But his mind seethed, *That’s right, O King, blame Legolas for your shortcomings! You held him back, manipulated him, drove him from Mirkwood, and now you wonder why he hesitates to speak to you! You do not deserve him!*

Langcyll searched desperately for a means of graceful exit, for his own temper was not without his limits, and knew himself enough to realize that he would never be fully rational where Legolas was concerned. But Thranduil spoke again, resentment coloring his voice, “Tell me, my former archer captain, did Legolas speak of me to the other warriors? Did he tell them what a dreadful father I was? Or did he never acknowledge my existence during the decades your company was abroad.”

“I know not of what you speak, my lord,” Langcyll said tensely, outrage making his hands shake as he continued preparing to ride. *You great tyrant! You have the malice to speak ill of your son to others; Legolas would never do such a thing to you! By the Valar, would that I might say such things to you!* “I am sorry to be hurrying in this fashion, but the hour is late, and I must be well down the trail before dawn. With your permission--”

Thranduil seemed not to hear him. “I tried to speak to him tonight. He showed me no more kinship than he would a dwarf! My son treated me as a stranger! Fine thing when a child treats his own father--”

Something angry and bitter within Langcyll would be repressed no more, and it broke free in a few terrible words. “You have not been a father!” The former captain of Mirkwood lashed out furiously. Thranduil broke off, stunned. “You have been a jailer!”

There was silence between them for a long moment. Langcyll had not shouted, but the force of his words and his anger made him tremble. *Now I have truly done it. I am no longer fit to lead warriors. Good sense has deserted me.* With an icy tone that would not be hidden, Langcyll said to the king, “I believe it would be for the best if I left now, my lord. Farewell.”

Thranduil seemed frozen, and Langcyll did not hesitate, but leapt upon his horse and rode from the stable yard at a gallop. The sooner he was out of those gates, the better. *But Legolas is still within them, and what I said…ai! By the Valar, what have I done?*

***

Shock rooted Thranduil where he stood long after Langcyll disappeared around the palace wall, riding toward the gate. The king’s captain’s words repeated over and over in his ears-- “You have not been a father! You have been a jailer!” Like the reverberating echo of a great gong, they rang on and on until Thranduil physically clapped his hands over his ears in a vain effort to shut them out, shock giving way to confusion and anguish. *Do all my children despise me? Have I failed them? Does Legolas truly see me thus…his captor? By the Valar, where did I go wrong?*

He did not remember beginning to walk, but wandered aimlessly along the grounds of the fortress until he came again to the banquet grounds. With a curse of combined anger and anguish, the king hurled a chair over as he passed, and began walking faster. He cursed Langcyll, his own captain, for having spoken thus to him, he cursed the Valar for the circumstances in which he found himself, and he cursed Legolas. The elven king stormed on, choking on angry curses while at the same time blinded by tears, following the corridors down into one of the lower store rooms--where the wine was stored.

***

It seemed like forever until Langcyll reached the West Gate of the elven king’s fortress. He rode through them with a heavy sigh of relief, and heaved another when he turned on the path and could no longer see the palace behind him. All at once, someone dropped from the trees just a few yards ahead of him.

Langcyll’s horse whinnied in surprise and stopped. The captain tried not to cringe. “Legolas. What in the name of Elbereth are you doing?”

Coming no closer but standing where he was, rather forlorn before Langcyll’s mount, the prince said quietly, “I wished to see you before you left.”

Langcyll’s head told him to simply bid farewell to Legolas and ride on. *My failure to exercise good sense has caused trouble once already tonight. I may as well do it again.* He dismounted. Legolas came to his side. “You must not ask me to remain, Legolas. You know full well that I cannot.”

His eyes downcast--*they are the same color as Thranduil’s, yet they are not like the king’s eyes,* thought Langcyll--Legolas nodded. “I know, though my heart grieves at the knowledge.” He raised his eyes to meet Langcyll’s, “I owe you much. I did not wish you to depart without saying…how very grateful I am for all you have done.”

*Ah, Elbereth, must this be so hard?* Langcyll swallowed against the lump in his throat. “You needn’t have troubled yourself, young prince, for just as many thanks are due you from myself.” He gripped Legolas’s shoulder tightly, as he had many times in the past when the young elf was troubled. Unable to keep his voice from going hoarse with emotion, he said, “Wherever I travel, I shall not forget you, Legolas. You have been a true son to me.”

Answering his captain’s grip, Legolas replied, “And you have been…as a father to me. I was honored to have had the chance to fight with you. Mirkwood shall never know such a leader as you.”

*I must tell him. I must warn him.* “Legolas,” Langcyll closed his eyes. “I must tell you this. The king and I…exchanged words just before I departed.” He forced himself to look at the prince, “I fear my temper got the better of me.” Legolas blinked; that was quite an admission from the normally-unflappable Langcyll. “King Thranduil’s anger at my words…will likely fall heavy upon you.”

Legolas grimaced slightly, but replied, “I must face many causes for anger in my father already; one more will hardly make the difference. Fear not for me, my captain.”

Langcyll smiled in spite of his grief. *How brave you are grown.* With deep reluctance, he stepped away from Legolas and remounted his horse. “I do not fear for you, for I know you shall be well.” Reaching down, he clasped Legolas’s hand one last time. “I am very proud of you. Farewell, Legolas.”

“Farewell, Langcyll. Safe journey.”

With that, the captain of Mirkwood turned and rode from the forest that had been his home for thousands of years, leaving the prince of Mirkwood standing until his friend and mentor was out of sight. Langcyll forced himself not to look back.

***

When Langcyll’s mount vanished into the trees, Legolas sighed, raising his eyes to the stars. *So Langcyll made Father angrier still. Well, it appears I must face his wrath on the morrow for many causes. I suppose this is the price I pay for my foolishness years ago.*

All the same, as he meandered back into the palace grounds and wandered to release his own thoughts, Legolas felt far more at ease than before. He no longer felt that there was aught left to be said between himself and Langcyll, and could now let his friend go with peace of mind.

But there still remained the question of what would pass between himself and the king, and what would become of Legolas now that he had returned from this mission. Should he join another at once, under another captain, or wait for a time in Mirkwood? He did not desire to leave his family and friends again so soon, without even having the chance to reacquaint with them.

Though these questions had not diminished since his talk with Langcyll, Legolas now felt far more ready to deal with them. *I will face my father and his anger tomorrow. We have made mistakes in past years, and words must pass between us, but I shall come through it. Father will see reason when his anger has cooled.*

He had wandered onto the banquet ground, absently setting back up a toppled chair. Closing his eyes, he breathed in a great breath of forest air, then turned to reenter the palace.

Someone was there, a dark figure standing still, awaiting Legolas in the shadows of the entryway--giving off a strong smell of wine. Legolas stepped hastily back as the larger elf stepped forward, trying to control the frantic beating of his heart.

“Father.”

*****

 

TIMELINE of “A Little Nudge Out of the Door” (Adapted From the Timeline in Appendix B of LOTR)

 

 

2933

Gilraen takes Aragorn to Imladris. Elrond receives him as foster-son and gives him the name Estel; his ancestry is concealed.

Spring 2941

The Gathering of the Elven Realms and Prince Legolas of Mirkwood wins the Great Gathering Trial, witnessed by Gandalf. Legolas’s second coming of age is officially recognized on that day. A month later, Legolas departs with fourteen other elves in the war party of Langcyll, warrior captain of Mirkwood. Gandalf leaves Mirkwood and goes to the Shire with Thorin Oakenshield to visit Bilbo Baggins.

Autumn 2941

Bilbo Baggins meets Smeagol-Gollum and finds the Ring of Power. Bilbo, Thorin Oakenshield and company are captured and imprisoned in Mirkwood by King Thranduil. The Battle of the Five Armies in Dale. Dáin of the Iron Hills becomes King Under the Mountain.

2942

Bilbo returns to the Shire with the Ring.

Spring 2943

Tathar of Mirkwood falls in battle with the orcs in the Misty Mountains.

Summer 2943

The war party of Langcyll reaches Rivendell, and are joined by Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir, and Faron of Imladris. The company encounters a party of dwarves in the Misty Mountains and travels the same road with them for some time. King Thranduil, bound for Imladris, meets Legolas and his war company on the plains just west of  
mountains.

Autumn 2943

The company of Langcyll and Glorfindel arrives in Lothlórien. Legolas looks into the Mirror of Galadriel.

Winter 2943

The battle on the borders of Lórien. Haldir, Rúmil, Maethor, and Orthelian of Lórien join the company from Imladris and Mirkwood. The company elects to travel south together to scout the strength of Mordor.

2944

Elrond sends for his sons. The rest of the company continues south. Gollum leaves the mountains and begins his search for the Ring. Late in the year, Crown Princess Eirien of Mirkwood gives birth to Silivren, daughter of Berensul.

2946

The dwarf company of Naldin returns to Lonely Mountain with a favorable report on the condition of Moria. Balin, Ori, and Óin begin pressing Dáin for permission to lead a force to reclaim Moria for the dwarves. Dáin gives his permission and the dwarves begin making plans.

2949

Gandalf and Balin visit Bilbo in the Shire. The war party of Imladris, Mirkwood, and Lothlórien is ambushed south of Emyn Muil. Fanfirith, Nathron, and Glanaur of Mirkwood are slain.

2951

Sauron declares himself openly and gathers power in Mordor. He begins the rebuilding of Barad-dur. Elrond reveals to Estel his true name and ancestry, and delivers to him the shards of Narsil. Arwen and Aragorn meet. Aragorn goes out into the wild.

2952

The war company crosses the Anduin into Ithilien and continues south.

2954

Mount Doom bursts into flame again, to the alarm of the elf war company. The last inhabitants of Ithilien flee over the Anduin.

2959

The war company reaches the Crossings of Poros and turns North again.

2968

The birth of Frodo.

2975

Lady Merilin of Mirkwood weds Candrochon of Mirkwood. Legolas’s actual second coming of age. The joint company of Mirkwood, Imladris, and Lothlórien arrives in Mirkwood.


	18. Fight or Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

“So, Legolas, you could not be troubled to speak to me, yet here you are wandering about the palace in the middle of the night.”

Legolas stood motionless, his earlier peace vanished. Thranduil had obviously been upset by whatever Langcyll had said (or by Legolas’s own response to him earlier.) And apparently, he had been drowning his sorrows considerably. Legolas’s mind raced--his father was definitely not in the best state of mind for speaking of the things he wished to. *I must not anger him further. I must speak.* “I could not sleep,” he said quietly.

At least it was not a total lie. Stepping into the moonlight, Thranduil’s eyes were dark with anger and his face was flushed. In a too-casual voice, he replied, “I could not sleep either, Legolas. I have been wondering what cause I have given my own son to despise me.”

“I do not despise you!” Legolas exclaimed.

“Of course you do!” Thranduil snapped, his affected pose gone and replaced now by unleashed rage. “Do you think me a fool, boy? When our parties met on the plains thirty years ago--I had not seen you in two years, and you fled from me like an agent of the Enemy!”

“I--” Legolas faltered.

Thranduil caught it. For an elf who had consumed far too much wine than was wise, his perceptions were remarkably sharp. A cold, humorless laugh came from him, grating on his youngest son’s ears. “Do not try to deny it. You avoided me then and you avoid me still. For what, Legolas?” Now he seemed to be almost pleading. “I may not have been perfect, but I have done nothing to warrant such coldness! Even when you do DEIGN--” his tone suddenly grew bitterly sarcastic--“to speak to me, you treat me as a stranger. I reared you; do you think I failed to see your mind when you came today? You would rather have been locked in that throne room with a hundred orcs!”

“Father--”

“I will no longer stand for it, Legolas, I am your father and your king! Unless you too consider me your jailer, as Langcyll does.”

Legolas froze in surprise, then remembered what Langcyll had told him. *That must be what he meant--* Unfortunately, the recognition showed in his face. Thranduil stared at him for a moment, and his fury palpably increased. His tirade erupted in a near-shout. “So! You could not sleep, you could not bring yourself to speak to your own father after all this time, so you went to Langcyll! I might have known! You have always listened to him before me, sought his counsel before mine, you care more for him than me--perhaps you wish he were your father! It is no wonder you have grown to hate me, with him poisoning your mind against me all these years--”

“That’s not true!” Legolas blurted out, unable to keep silent in the face of such accusations. “Langcyll is not to blame for--”

“For what?”

*I will not lose my temper. I will NOT lose my temper!* Legolas took a deep breath, forcing down the frustrated anger that had begun to boil up inside him. “Langcyll is not to blame for our troubles, Father. It has nothing to do with him.”

Thranduil’s face had gone from enraged to anguished. In a voice suddenly filled with pain, he practically whispered, “Then why?”

*I would rather he had remained angry,* Legolas thought, flinching inwardly from his father’s desperate gaze. The carefully-built walls of duty and honor and protocol had been stripped away by the wine, and bared a mass of pent-up emotion that Legolas feared to see. *This is a dangerous conversation to have when he has been drinking so much, yet…if I continue to put him off, there may never be a peace between us. I must answer him.*

Aloud, he said softly, “I knew not what to say.” *At least that is the truth. I still know not what to say.*

His father stared at him, half-doubtful, half-suspicious. “Years you were gone, without so much as a message, the world has turned, so much has happened, and you could think of nothing to say to me?”

“No,” Legolas thought he detected a note of reason returning and sought it desperately. “It is as you say, so many things had changed. I felt…It was…confusion.”

“Spite,” Thranduil qualified it curtly.

“No! It was not spite!” Legolas protested frantically.

“Then why will you not behave toward me as a son and a prince ought?!” Thranduil snapped, his eyes flashing. “Forget not that I am your lord and king, and I require certain courtesies at the very least!”

*Breathe. Remember to breathe.* “Yes, Father.” Legolas tried not to sound resentful. “As a warrior of Mirkwood, you are my lord and king, and I am at your command.”

Thranduil stared harder, clearly trying to determine if Legolas was in earnest. As it happened, Legolas was, but it was more out of a desire to trigger the king’s commanding instinct and put an end to the father-son aspects of it, for he did not think he could bear much more. All the same, it worked.

The elven king nodded slowly, drawing himself up. “Yes, young prince, you are. And no longer a member of a war party. So listen well. Tomorrow I shall see you in my court, and you shall attend every day at least until the next companies depart in six weeks. It is time you involved yourself in the government of your father’s realm.”

“Yes, Father,” Legolas replied, though inwardly he wanted to groan. Attending the king’s court had never held much interest for him, and many years of travel in the open--*I shall go mad, spending hours on end in that cave!* Yet he was back in Mirkwood, and his duties as the king’s son once again would take precedence. On top of that, a memory suddenly struck him. In his mind, he heard Galadriel’s words of thirty years before, *“There must be a peace between you, or all will be lost.”*

Sighing to himself, Legolas met his father’s intense eyes and nodded, hoping Thranduil would see it as a friendly gesture. He did mean it so, but considering Thranduil’s paranoid (and decidedly befuddled) state, Legolas could not predict how he might interpret what his son did or said.

Apparently, Thranduil was satisfied, for the turmoil left his face and he simply looked weary. “Very well, my son. I shall see you in my court tomorrow.”

Legolas straightened and nodded again, “Good night, Father.” He waited until Thranduil had passed back into the caves before he himself turned back into the outer palace. By some strange reserve of strength he maintained his composure right until he closed his chamber door--then he leaned back against it and released a great shudder that shook his entire body.

His mind still reeled with frantic thoughts and emotions, but he furiously pushed them away. *If I dwell all night on what has passed this day, I shall never find peace. I would do better to get some sleep. The world will look very different in the morning.”

***

It did. Though Legolas did have a rather sudden, if not unpleasant, awakening. He was jolted from sleep by a squealed command of “Wake up, Uncle Leg’las!” followed by the impact of a small body landing on top of him.

Legolas sat bolt upright with a startled yelp and found himself face-to-face with a giggling Silivren, still in her night tunic with her hair falling unkempt. But that if anything made her more endearing. Legolas shook the last vestiges of sleep from his head and remarked drolly, “Well, my dear niece, you seem to have escaped your chamber.”

Silivren simply held out her arms in an unspoken demand to be cuddled…at once! And that was one order Legolas was all too happy to obey as he pulled the little girl into his arms--and began tickling her. Her shrieks and laughter soon alerted the servants who were hunting the fugitive princess, and before long, Golwen (Silivren’s caretaker when Berensul and Eirien were occupied) knocked on the door. “My lord? I am searching for Princess Silivren.”

Silivren squealed and dove beneath Legolas’s blanket as her pursuer entered. Legolas replied playfully, “I have no idea where she might be, Golwen.”

Golwen smiled and put her hands upon her hips, perfectly able to see the small lump at the foot of the bed. “Indeed, Prince Legolas? How odd; I thought I heard her voice!”

“I fear you must have been mistaken.”

(Giggle!)

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought I heard something.” (Giggle!) “Now, Prince Legolas, I am quite certain I heard something!”

“It must be your imagination.”

“Indeed?”

(Giggle!) POUNCE! SQUEAL!!! “Leggo! Lemme out!”

Golwen wrestled with a giggling, shrieking bundle wrapped in Legolas’s blanket as she attempted to haul it from the bed. “You are returning to your chambers and getting dressed, young lady! It is almost time for breakfast, now come!”

“Leg’laaaassss!”

Struggling to contain his laughter, Legolas rose and helped disentangle Silivren from the blanket. “Peace, little one, behave yourself. Are Berensul and Eirien out of the palace?” he asked Golwen.

“Aye, my lord, they left early. They are expected back this afternoon.”

“Then I shall join Princess Silivren for breakfast.”

“Really?!” the child ceased squirming in her nurse’s arms and turned eagerly to Legolas.

“IF you are good,” Golwen said firmly. Silivren nodded vigorously and allowed herself to be borne away. Legolas watched them depart and grinned to himself. *Perhaps today will indeed be a better day.*

***

King Thranduil made it a habit to visit his first grandchild every morning before holding court. On this morning, he arrived in the outer palace to find Silivren having breakfast on a balcony with Orthelian and Legolas--and being very entertained by stories of her uncles’ adventures. Legolas’s back was to him, and Silivren exclaimed, “Grandfather!” springing from her chair and running to Thranduil’s arms to be swept up and kissed.

“Ah, good morrow, my little darling,” Thranduil said, for the child charmed him as effortlessly as all others who beheld her since the day she was born. “How are you today?”

“Uncle Leg’las and Uncle Orthelian are telling me stories!”

“So I see, and they must be very exciting,” Thranduil said, his gaze irresistibly sliding past her to his son. Orthelian, looked quickly from father to son and then to Silivren, obviously wondering if he should take her away. Legolas had risen when he saw the king, but was smiling at them now. *That…seems a good sign.* “Good morrow, Orthelian, Legolas.”

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Good morning, Father.”

There was a warmth in Legolas’s tone, but whether directed toward Thranduil or Silivren, his father could not be sure. Still, it was an improvement. He had awakened this morning, remembered the night before, and promptly began cursing himself for his stupidity. *Of all the utterly foolhardy things I have done, drinking to excess and then trying to have a meaningful conversation with my son definitely ranks highly. He is treating me better than I deserve today.* With that in mind, he said, “Eirien and Berensul are not expected to return until this evening, Legolas. I will not require you to come to court today if you wish to keep your niece company.”

Orthelian glanced hastily from Thranduil to Legolas again before erasing the flicker of apprehension from his face. Legolas hesitated only for a moment before shaking his head and replying smoothly, “Nay, Father, I will come. As you s--it is my duty now that I am returned. Orthelian?”

“I will take Silivren for a ride this afternoon,” their kinsman offered quickly and king and prince nodded simultaneously.

*Well, this is a beginning…if awkward. But I suppose I should not expect too much too soon.* “That is well. Off with you now, Silivren.” He shooed his granddaughter back to her breakfast.

“Until later, Orthelian,” Legolas said, and started to follow Thranduil from the room.

“Uncle Leg’las, where are you going?” Silivren demanded, outrage in her little voice at Legolas’s early departure.

Legolas’s eyes met his father’s briefly as Thranduil turned back, and they sparkled with laughter. *That is the Legolas I remember. How I have longed to see a smile from him.* He and his youngest son shared a quick grin before Legolas turned back to his niece, “I have work to do with your grandfather now, Silivren. But Uncle Orthelian has promised to give you a ride after breakfast.”

It successfully distracted her, and she turned eagerly to Orthelian, “Can I drive?”

“Er…” Laughing, Legolas and Thranduil made a hasty retreat from the room.

“She is very much her father’s daughter,” Legolas remarked as they walked through the outer palace.

“True, she is much like Berensul,” Thranduil agreed. “But I have also seen many reminders of Eirien in her. She will grow to have the best of each of them.”

“I rather think she has that now,” Legolas replied and they laughed. “The beauty of her mother and the spirit of her father.”

“Aye, and too much of the latter, to hear Golwen talk,” Thranduil added, and they laughed harder. Golwen had been nurse and nanny to all seven of Thranduil and Minuial’s children, and it had been the wish of them all that she should also care for their own children one day.

Walking easily at the king’s side, Legolas had a distant look in his bright eyes. “They said Limloeth was here for Silivren’s birth?”

“Yea, Berensul and Eirien sent for her in plenty of time. And unnecessarily, as it turned out, for Silivren was late. Like her father,” Thranduil smiled to himself.

Legolas grimaced in response, “That must have made it difficult for Eirien.”

“Not at all; she remained strong in body and spirit throughout the term, and there was no trouble at the birth itself, for which we were very thankful.” Legolas nodded vigorously in agreement with that sentiment. Thranduil went on, “All of Mirkwood was celebrating. Lord Elrond came, and Lady Arwen.”

“Any from Lothlórien other than Limloeth?”

“Orophin and Lady Gaeriel represented the Galadhrim. Lord Celeborn was to attend, but then their warriors feared another attack, so he remained in Lórien and sent Orophin in his stead.”

They were crossing the bridge into the king’s halls. Thranduil discreetly watched his son’s reaction to them, but today Legolas appeared preoccupied by the news he was hearing and seemed not to notice the cave. “They say orcs were trying the borders of Lórien so frequently that Lady Galadriel pulled off the guards.”

Thranduil nodded grimly, “Too many were being lost in direct confrontations. Now fell creatures may manage to enter into Lórien, but the ambushes of her warriors ensure that such marauders never come out. The same tactic is being used now in Imladris.”

There was a shadow over his son’s eyes. “We were in Ithilien, east of the Anduin, when Mount Doom burst into flame again. If there had ever been any doubt of what is happening here…”

“You saw it?”

“Yea. Over the tops of the Ephel Duath. There was a great distance between it and us, but that day…it seemed very close.” Legolas smiled wryly. “Too close.”

“When we heard it had erupted again, knowing you were south, I feared for you.”

Legolas glanced at his father then, and Thranduil noticed his son’s expression had closed somewhat. *So, you are still unready to talk of that. Perhaps unwilling.* Fortunately, their arrival in the throne room forestalled further conversation.

***

Legolas spent the remainder of the morning seated in the king’s hall while Thranduil granted audiences. Most of the matters were nothing he had not seen before: the expanding of dwellings, requests for more weapons or guards for the outlying villages, the approval of new crafts. That morning at least, Legolas began to feel a respect for his father that he had begun to think was gone. He had always known in his heart that Thranduil was generous with his own people, but the elven king turned out to also be fair and (he had to admit) wise when it came to rule of the realm.

“But if we had a properly-armed force, my lord,” one petitioning elf was saying. “I am certain we could hold the colony against further attacks.”

Thranduil, seated regally upon his throne, listened calmly to the elf’s petition, then sat thoughtfully in consideration. “I daresay it is possible, Thoron. I am aware your village repelled two assaults already.” Thoron nodded eagerly, but the king was not done. “However, twelve guards have been lost defending it in the past two years, as well as three of your villagers. Know you any reason to believe the number or boldness of the fell creatures of the south will diminish?”

Thoron hesitated, “I know not, my lord.”

The king knitted his fingers thoughtfully, and regret tinged his voice, “I see no reason to think the assaults on our outlying settlements will lessen, and many reasons to fear just the opposite. I know how painful it shall be to relocate your people, Thoron, but I fear it must be done. To stay in a small settlement so far south will all but guarantee the loss of more lives, and in no way prevent the eventual overrun of the village. It is not a risk that should be taken. Homes can be rebuilt; lives cannot.”

Legolas felt sorrow at the inevitable displacement of the elves in the outlying villages, but knew his father’s prediction was likely true. It was not worth the dangers of trying to hold the borders indefinitely in times like these. To his credit, Thoron accepted the king’s decision in good grace, if sadly. “I shall prepare my people for evacuation, my lord.”

Thranduil nodded, “A well-armed escort shall be sent when you are ready to depart to bring you safely north.”

“My thanks, my lord.” Thoron bowed and departed.

The next petition was more interesting, and it was not something Legolas recalled having seen before in his attendance at his father’s court. Then again, when he was younger, Legolas had not been required to attend court regularly, and was frequently dismissed during what Thranduil had termed “complicated” matters. But now he was curious. A group of human merchants had been seen leading a caravan of wares to Lake Town. Elves from several of the easternmost villages were requesting permission to trade with them for iron.

“Denied,” Thranduil replied, almost offhandedly.

Legolas blinked. The elves exchanged looks. “My lord,” one of them said hesitantly. “They carry a great store of shaped iron, that we might use to fortify some of our more vulnerable settlements against attack. I am aware of the…difficulties of trading with men, but perhaps an exception might be warranted in this case…”

In a tone of exaggerated patience that made Legolas wince inwardly with memory, Thranduil replied, “To be forced to petition mortals for aid, Gwirith, we shall have to be in far more dire circumstances than these.” He raised a hand to forestall further protests, “Nay, it is true that we might benefit from their iron, but I would sooner do without it than supplication toward men. As merchants, they are as greedy as dwarves; it would probably be inferior metal anyway. If your villages have need of better defenses, we shall deal with that ourselves.”

Clearly discouraged, the eastern elves left. Legolas merely felt a little puzzled. Surely these matters had come up in the past--why had he never heard of such requests before on all the different occasions he had been present in his father’s audience hall throughout his youth? Now that he thought back, he had never been present when his father dealt with matters concerning any race other than elves.

Thranduil apparently noticed, for that afternoon as they were leaving, he mentioned it. “Did my decision regarding the Lake Town merchants trouble you, Legolas?”

Legolas answered honestly, “Nay, Father, it did not trouble me. But it did puzzle me a little. I would consider iron a great asset to the eastern villages’ defenses.”

“Quite true, and a shame we shall not partake of it. But its benefit does not outweigh the drawbacks of too many dealings with mortals. Especially dealings in which we would be forced to admit a weakness.” The king shot a rather hard glance at Legolas, “Do you not agree?”

Legolas hastily adopted a neutral tone and expression. “You know better than I, Father.”

“Surely you have encountered men during the journey south.”

“Very few,” said Legolas. Thranduil looked surprised, and the prince explained, “We spent a good deal of the journey east of the Anduin. Ithilien was all but deserted and even the men west of the great river kept to their strongholds for safety. Mortal or not, I pity the inhabitants of Gondor, so close to Mordor. We passed many abandoned villages that bore the look of having been besieged for decades.”

In a very odd tone, Thranduil said, “Perhaps they are to be pitied, for all it is their own doing.”

“What?” Legolas said in confusion. “How can you say that? The men of Gondor surely had naught to do with Sauron’s return.”

Thranduil’s tone went from dismissive to rather patronizing, and Legolas bristled inwardly. “Nay, not directly, my son, but forget not that it was Isildur, the son of Elendil, whose heart was corrupted by the Ring of Power and allowed it to survive. It is his actions that are visited now upon Gondor, and all of Middle Earth pays the price of his weakness.”

Legolas frowned thoughtfully, “But surely the innocents of a kingdom have done nothing to deserve it, whatever Isildur did thousands of years ago.”

“Forget not that I was there, Legolas,” Thranduil said rather harshly. “I warned Elrond the Last Alliance would be a disaster, but the other realms overruled me.”

Without thinking, Legolas argued, “But had Sauron defeated the forces of men alone, it would have been a still greater disaster. He would have taken the elves and Middle Earth anyway. The Alliance at least was the right choice, whatever ill-fated decision Isildur made.”

“It was an ill-fated decision, and unforgivable. I saw it all.”

Legolas hesitated, then thought, *What am I afraid of? He wanted me to speak to him, after all.* “I know you were there, Father, and that it was under bitter circumstances that you became King of Mirkwood.”

“The day your grandfather perished along with more than half of Mirkwood’s warriors! I could not find Berensul for nearly two days, and Limloeth nearly died of her wounds. Our people paid dearly that day.”

“So did Isildur’s,” Legolas countered. “His own people were just as wronged as the elves by his choice. They are not all to blame for his mistake--”

Thranduil dismissed the argument with an annoyed wave of his hand, “You know nothing of which you speak, young prince. Have done.”

Legolas started to protest, then sighed and let it drop. Whatever he said, Thranduil would still dismiss it as childish ignorance, or worse, be angered by what he perceived as a challenge of his authority. *Yea, Father, you wish to hear me speak--as long as it is merely my agreeing with you.*

***

Such was the routine of Legolas’s life for several weeks. All in all, he had few disputes with his father, because it soon became painfully clear to him how futile it was to debate with Thranduil on any subject. But other than that irritating detail of spending so much time nodding and smiling in his father’s company, Legolas was glad to be home.

Much of his free time was spent coming up with ways to amuse his little niece--one pursuit Thranduil was always willing to grant leave for. He and Orthelian regularly took her on their horses through the forest, or in a boat on the river. She was soon begging to be taught how to ride herself.

“You are too small,” laughed Orthelian on one such occasion. “Your legs are not long enough to sit a horse, Sili.”

Silivren pouted and Legolas added, “He is right, Sili, you would fall right off a tall horse. Perhaps we might find her a pony,” he murmured in an aside to Orthelian.

Orthelian nodded thoughtfully, “There are no ponies in Mirkwood, but maybe Lake Town--men use them as pack animals.”

Legolas grimaced to himself, “A good idea, but Father would never approve buying a pony for Silivren when he would not give leave even to trade for iron.”

***

The warriors of Imladris and Lórien departed together six weeks after the company arrived in Mirkwood--on the same day as the Mirkwood war parties also rode out. Legolas, along with Galithil and Elunen, did not join any of the spring companies, choosing to remain home as part of the king’s guard rather than travel again so soon. But the day their friends from the neighboring realms left was a painful one.

“It has been an honor traveling with you, Glorfindel,” Legolas told the Imladris lord as he prepared to mount his horse.

Glorfindel smiled, clapping a hand on the prince’s shoulder. “I shall miss you, Legolas.” He and the prince clasped arms, “Be well, young warrior. We shall meet again.”

“Most definitely,” Legolas promised.

“Now that you’re done paying homage, are you going to say farewell to me?” Faron demanded in a miffed tone.

Legolas grinned at Glorfindel before turning and attacking Faron in a wild embrace, “Try not to get yourself killed on the journey home, Faron of Imladris.”

“You are the one I am worried about, without me to keep an eye on you!”

“Hah!”

“All right, boys, cease your games!” Galithil unceremoniously shoved Legolas out of the way so she could embrace Faron. “Others have farewells to make, you know.”

“Ah, Galithil, you are so much more interesting than him.”

“I am only being polite.”

“Ha, do not believe her, Faron; she cannot keep her hands off you--ow!”

“Better hurry, Legolas, Galithil,” Elunen warned. “You are running out of time.”

Berensul and Eirien came out then with Silivren to say farewell to Orthelian. Legolas hurried to his brother-in-law. “Until we meet again, my friend, take care of my sister.”

“I rather suspect she would consider it the other way around.”

“When are you coming back, Uncle Orthelian?”

“Ah, Silivren, I could not bear to be separated from you for long. Fear not, your Aunt Limloeth and I shall come visiting in good time.”

“Soon?”

“We shall see. Farewell, Berensul.”

“Farewell, my brother.”

“Try not to abuse Legolas too much.”

“Forgive me, friend, but I cannot shirk my duties as elder brother.”

“Of course not. So sorry, Legolas.”

“Well, thank you for trying, Orthelian.”

The warriors mounted up, and Legolas found himself forcing a smile over a rapidly growing hole in his heart. *Thirty years, I lived, ate, slept, and rode with these warriors. How empty life is about to become without them. Ah, Elbereth, when will I see them all again? Never, not in a time like we had on that journey. In some ways, I wish that it had never ended.*

Faron looked over his shoulder at Legolas as Glorfindel and Haldir gave the signal to ride, then waved vigorously at the prince and Galithil as the warriors galloped away. Legolas and his family waved back until the warriors were out of sight. Legolas sighed. *Another change. I grow tired of hearing the word.*

The elves of Mirkwood who had come to see the warriors off returned to the palace, and Legolas desperately searched for a distraction from the emptiness that growing inside him. He already missed them. Fortunately, he found one. Silivren scampered up, having escaped again from the frazzled-looking Golwen, and demanded to be played with immediately. Legolas glanced at the king, who nodded with a faint smile, then scooped up Silivren and aided her in fleeing from a vigorously-scolding Golwen.

“Prince Legolas, HOW am I to teach her discipline when you keep encouraging her--come back here! My lord, this really is too much! Silivren! Behave yourself!”

Legolas evaded Golwen all the way back to Silivren’s play room, and there the king discovered him lifting Silivren above his head and spinning her around and around until he was too dizzy to continue (though she shrieked for more.) “Enough, Sili,” he laughed, staggering slightly to sit down on a couch. “It is quite shameful for an elf to lose his balance.”

“Then tell me a story?” Silivren said eagerly, hopping up next to him.

“What story shall I tell you?”

“Tell me about Mount Doom and the fire,” said the child. So he told her, laughing as Silivren declared, “I want to be a warrior and have adventures!” Still laughing, Legolas pulled her into his lap, but noticed Thranduil watching from the doorway with a very odd expression.

***

*I must speak with Legolas, and soon, about these stories to my granddaughter,* Thranduil thought as he left the outer palace. *It is unwise to tantalize a child with stories of adventure, with the world so dangerous as it is now.*  
He seized the opportunity as soon as Golwen finally apprehended Silivren and took her to her bath. As his son came out of the play room, Thranduil approached him in the hall, “I wish you would not tell her those things.”

Legolas blinked, looking defensive, “What things?”

“Do not be contrary, Legolas, you know of what I speak.”

The young prince lifted his chin in a manner he had adopted since returning--and that had a way of greatly irritating Thranduil whenever he did it. “Father, there can be no harm in telling Silivren stories of the outside world. To isolate her will only make reality harder to bear when she is older.”

*And when precisely did you become an expert on fatherhood, young upstart? I’ll not have you trying to influence Silivren with your impetuous nature!* Thranduil gave his son a warning stare--and growing more aggravated at the way Legolas folded his arms. Sternly, as a reminder of his own authority, he told his son, “You are not her father, Legolas.”

The prince clearly bristled, but seemed to bite back what would likely have been a tart rejoinder. Instead, he gave a curt nod that in no way signaled his acquiescence in Thranduil’s opinion, and walked away. Standing in the hall where he was, Thranduil folded his arms and pondered. *He cannot possibly think that having been away for thirty-four years permits him to defy me.* Perhaps the situation with Silivren was not worth quarreling over and yet…*Whatever their age, I do not suffer my sons to show lack of respect for me, as their king or their father. Legolas shall listen and obey me in this, and do so with good grace.* Pursing his lips, Thranduil started after his wayward son.

***

Hearing his father call his name, Legolas cursed under his breath. *What does he want from me? Is it not enough that I attend his court and spend the better part of every day biting my tongue, that now he must dominate my every thought and word?* “Legolas!” his father said sharply from behind him. “You will turn and answer me.”

Sighing heavily, Legolas turned and asked with rather bare civility, “Yes, Father?”

“Young prince, I find your behavior unacceptable.”

*How is it that I never saw before how pompous he can be? Nay, why am I surprised? He hid the world away from me just as he seeks to from Silivren!* “Father, I think Silivren has a right to know that a world does exist beyond Mirkwood. It is wrong to shelter her--”

“She is twenty-nine years old, far too young to be exposed to all the horrors that exist--”

Legolas threw up his hands in exasperation, startling the king into stepping back, “I do not seek to expose her to anything! But she shall hear of such things some way or another, and better from her family, whom she can ask questions of and trust us to tell her the truth!”

“She is not your daughter, Legolas!” Thranduil snapped, and this time the prince did not bother to hold back what he had desired to say before.

“Nor is she yours! And Berensul would not approve of sheltering her either! He tells her stories and encourages her to learn of the world--”

Thranduil’s eyes were beginning to flash angrily, and he cut his son off with a very sharp wave of his hand. “For the last time, Legolas, you will NOT speak to her of such things!”

Legolas started to turn away, intending to get out of the palace and wander the trees until he calmed down, then he thought, *Fah, must I always be hiding from him? Nay, he wished me home, he wished me to speak to him. And now he is angered because I speak with my own mind!* Aloud, he said in a cold voice, “I will pay a close mind to what I say, Father.” With a deep breath, aware how Thranduil was likely to take this qualification, he went on, “But I will not cease the tales altogether. Silivren enjoys them.”

His expectations were met. Thranduil advanced slowly, daggers in his black eyes as he glared furiously at his youngest son. In a voice that was almost a hoarse whisper of rage, he said, “You dare defy me?”

Lowering his own voice, Legolas lifted his chin and leaned into the gale of his father’s wrath. “It is not your decision. Berensul is her father, Eirien is her mother. Neither of them have expressed any worry for her well-being.”

“You do this to spite me!”

“This is not about you!” Legolas fired back, raising his voice in spite of himself. “Nor about me!”

“No? You seek to infect your niece with the same impulsive foolishness that seems to have taken over you, you arrogant boy!”

“Do not patronize me, Father, I am a child no longer! You cannot expect me to mindlessly cater to your every whim. And if you do, you shall find a sorry result!”

Thranduil started forward with more rage in his bearing than Legolas had ever seen. “You--”

“Leg’las?”

Both elves froze. Thranduil turned and Legolas looked past him, both trembling slightly, to see a small golden head peering out of an empty chamber, and two very large blue eyes staring at them. Legolas took an involuntary step backward, struck dumb with horror and dismay, and Thranduil said in a slightly choked voice, “Yes, Silivren?”

“What’s going on, Grandfather?”

The elven king went to her and picked her up, smiling reassuringly at her. “Nothing, little one. Nothing.” Legolas looked hastily away until he could regain his composure. Then he forced a smile as he walked past into the royal chambers.

Closing his door, Legolas leaned his forehead against it. By the Valar, had they both lost all sense, quarreling when Silivren was about? “And Father will not let this go, either,” he murmured to himself. “As soon as she is safely out of the way, he will be at me again.”

He did not even realize he was pacing. *I thought things were getting better. Why are we still quarreling?* He scowled as a rather chilly wind brought the smell of approaching rain into his room, and closed the window, cutting off the fresh, relaxing breeze. *He would raise Silivren just as he raised me--sheltered, ignorant, naïve. Never knowing all there is to be known, never seeing all there is to see, forced to hear of it from others her own age, trapped within the same few miles of forest all her youth when there is the whole world to explore*-- “No!” he hissed to himself. “I will not allow him to imprison her that way! Berensul will not allow it. He has another thing coming if he believes my brother will permit him to interfere with Sili’s upbringing.”

There was a rumble of thunder outside, and the first sheets of rain lashed against the glass of the balcony window. Legolas sighed. He would have liked a walk in the trees to collect himself, but not in this weather. *It will not do to get myself struck by lightning.* All the same, he should not stay in his room fuming and allowing his anger to smolder until Thranduil arrived. *That is a guarantee for our tempers to get out of hand.*

With that in mind, he left his quarters and began wandering the palace, hoping for time for his temper to cool. Too much had happened today already, with Faron and Orthelian and the others leaving and war parties going as well. He was weary, he was sad, and all he needed was time to himself, to sort out his jumbled thoughts and feelings. Perhaps if it had been so, things would not have gone as ill as they did.

***

King Thranduil had the good sense to guard his responses to Silivren, and soon reassured the child that nothing was wrong between himself and her uncle Legolas. But no sooner had he handed the child off to Golwen and bidden her take Silivren to her mother than he went in search of his erring son.

He found Legolas not far from his chamber, walking away from it. *Trying to evade me again,* he thought, his half-forgotten anger bursting back into heat. “Legolas. We are not done.”

Stopping and heaving a great, reluctant sigh that served only to infuriate his father, Legolas turned, “Sire, I think if we continue to speak thus, we shall only lose our tempers.”

This continued defiance was insupportable. Thranduil raised his voice, “I will NOT put up with this insubordination, Legolas! You WILL hold your tongue!”

“And I say to you again that the decision is not yours to make!” Legolas shot back without hesitation, his black eyes flashing with anger.

Thranduil advanced purposefully, fully intending to put this rebellious boy in his place. Legolas backed up, but did not back down. “Do not think that all your time with a war party gives you the right to disobey me, young prince! I am still your king! You owe me respect and still more after all you have done to me--”

Legolas cut him off with a bark of laughter, half-astonished, half-contemptuous, “After all I have done to YOU?! Just how did your narrow mind manage to twist that from the truth?”

Thranduil was shaking with fury. In a voice lowered again, but no less enraged, he hissed, “I have admitted before that I made mistakes, Legolas; it is you who spitefully persist in punishing me! Perhaps I brought your initial departure on myself, but all that time, all those years,” his voice was rising in anger, and something more, “with nary a message other than to say where your company was going. Do you STILL seek revenge after all that time?!” In a frantic manner bordering on hysteria, he grabbed his son by the shoulders, “Thirty-four YEARS?!”

Legolas jerked sharply away, looking shaken but still angry. “Why do you persist in believing that my every action is intended to spite you? Open your eyes, O King, my contention has nothing to do with you! I seek to spare Silivren from the frustrated boredom that drove me from Mirkwood in the first place! Yea, our quarrel was partly the reason that I left, but not all!” Now his voice in turn seemed anguished, “All those centuries, I let you convince me that I was not ready to travel, not ready to explore the world, when all my companions had been beyond Mirkwood to some elven realm or another! Know you the agony of hearing others talking of wonders you yourself have yet to see? But I was unable to see them because you would not let me go! If our troubles are in any way behind this dispute over Silivren, it is only that I seek to spare her the same fate when she comes of age!”

Anger and remembered pain swept through Thranduil like great waves, and he could not seem to slow down his words enough to control them. “I would prefer her bored when she comes of age to dead because she recklessly tried to do more than she should! Do not think it cannot happen, Legolas, it has before! Must I remind you--”

“--Do not start that again!” Legolas shouted, his own self-control having deserted him. “You know me so little, you seek to quell and control me with the very same vicious manipulation that you used before! It failed then and I will not let you use it now! I grieve for my brother and my sisters, Father, and wish with all my being that I might have known them! But evil comes whether we hide from it or go to meet it, and all the precautions in the world cannot stop it!”

Thranduil also no longer bothered to control his rage, “Ah, Legolas, you have grown into such a fool! You would teach Silivren to grow up as reckless as you have become--”

“I am not reckless, Father; I am a warrior!”

“Your decision all those years ago was most certainly reckless--”

“I had to join a war party sooner or later; there was no point in delaying it forever--”

“But Langcyll’s party, the longest and most perilous of them all, that was recklessness and folly at its worst--”

“Whatever you think of it, I’ve no regrets at having chosen them--”

Legolas had never been so openly challenging to Thranduil before, and the elven king was reeling amid the frantic verbal sparring. So enraged was he, and determined to get the better of his son, that the next words flew from his mouth, even as something in his mind and heart screamed for him to stop… “Did Tathar, do you suppose?!”

 

 

Then there was silence.

 

Legolas jerked backward as though Thranduil had physically struck him in the chest. The king was frozen, unable to move, as the words echoed in his mind, irreversibly released, stabbing both him and his son again and again. He could only stare. Legolas’s eyes were locked on his, wide with shock and pain, his mouth open, trembling with the devastating hurt his father’s words had done him. The young prince did not seem able to find his voice, but he found some movement, and took a rather staggered step backward. The disbelief in his face slowly gave way to an anger deeper and more intense than his father had ever seen.

Thranduil desperately tried to rouse himself to speak. *By the Valar…what have I…did I truly just speak so…Ai! How could I be so cruel?! I did not mean it! Legolas! I did not--I must speak--I must say SOMETHING--* “L-Legolas--”

His son gave only a ragged gasp as he turned and started swiftly away. “No--” Thranduil rushed forward and attempted to catch his arm, but Legolas shook him off so hard that the larger elf stumbled. “Legolas, please--”

Legolas whirled, his eyes blazing with a fury that made Thranduil recoil. In a low, trembling voice, he said icily, “Stay away from me.” Then he fled down the corridor only just short of all-out running. Standing helplessly in the corridor, the elven king could only watch him go. Had he truly spoken thus to his son? How could he have done such a thing? He had chosen the most utterly vicious and painful sword with which to stab Legolas, and this time he could not even begin to blame his actions on too much wine. *What have I done? What have I done?*

***

*“Did Tathar? Did Tathar? Did Tathar Did Tathar Did Tathar didTathardidTatharTathartathartathar…”*

Legolas had no idea how he reached his own chamber, but suddenly found himself standing in the center of his room, his hands clapped over his ears as though trying to drown out an endless echo that was trapped within his head. Was King Thranduil truly so bent on dominating him that he would resort to the most vicious and painful words that could be found in order to ensure Legolas’s submission?

*I already have heard what he is capable of when he is set on having his way. What will be next, will he lock ME in the dungeons?* the young elf thought bitterly.

It was not as if the question itself had been what shocked Legolas--such thoughts and questions had dogged him every moment since that accursed night under the apple tree. He had thought himself to be making progress--now, he only thought of Tathar once or twice a minute instead of every waking second. Legolas had considered it a vast improvement.

Thranduil had been fond of Tathar as well, and when the two had been young, the king often referred to Tathar as “his eighth son,” for he and Legolas had been so inseparable. It was not only Legolas who had been wronged by his words. *How could he say such a thing? How could he? Is there nothing he will not stoop to?*

He had fallen to his knees on the floor. How he had gotten here, he did not know, his mind was in such turmoil. He had no idea how long he remained there, still shaking and unable to move or rouse himself to any coherent thought beyond the last few devastating minutes.

But he was roused by a click at the door. Before he could deny entrance, it opened to reveal the timid face of his niece, gazing at him with worried eyes. “Uncle Leg’las?”

It took so much of his strength not to fall apart that Legolas could not speak. Silivren shuffled into the room and walked to where Legolas still knelt on the floor, dumb and motionless. *I cannot let her see…* But elf children are perceptive in their own right, and when Silivren held out her arms to him, it was clearly not a request for herself, but an offer to him. Squeezing his eyes closed and biting his lip, Legolas swept his niece into a fierce embrace, holding onto her small, innocent form as a rudder for his sanity.

At last, he felt he could look at Sili without frightening her by bursting into tears, and pulled back to give her a rather forced smile. She saw through it, of course. “What’s wrong, Uncle Leg’las?”

“Nothing--” he began, and she pulled back and put her hands on her hips in a manner so much like Golwen that he had to laugh. Taking a deep breath, he embraced her again and whispered, “You are too young to understand, Silivren. But I promise I shall tell you some day.”

“I heard you and Grandfather shouting,” she murmured, her little voice troubled.

Legolas winced and shut his eyes again. *And now our quarrel hurts more than just us. When will this end? How can it end? How can I prevent Silivren from being wounded by our troubles?* He could think of one way, and it nearly caused him to lose control again. But what other choice did he have? *I cannot let my father walk all over me, and I cannot continue to fight him when Silivren might hear us. By the Valar, I do not want to leave again…but how else will this cease? He will not give in, nor will I, and the tension shall harm us all if it continues.*

The bitter truth of the situation struck him as he brought his niece back to Golwen and returned to his quarters. Staring about them with a heavy sigh, Legolas snatched out his saddlebags and began shoving his travel gear back into them. *Only six weeks, I had at home before being driven forth again. Curse the Valar, and curse my father for his hard-headedness!*

Footsteps of another elf came down the hall, and his chamber door opened. Legolas spun around, intending to explode at his father to leave him be, but caught himself--it was Berensul. The Crown Prince gazed at the saddlebags, then at Legolas. “So, running away again?”

“I am not running away,” Legolas snapped, but quietly for fear of being overheard.

Berensul walked over and attempted to put a hand on his shoulder, but Legolas jerked away. “Brother, listen to me, you cannot run from him every time you have a quarrel!”

Shoving the bags aside, Legolas stood to face his elder brother. He knew he was directing his anger where it was undeserved, but he could not stop himself, “You know naught of which you speak, Berensul. If I stay, this quarrel will not end, it will only continue, and Silivren has already overheard us twice! Do you want your daughter to be a witness to this madness?”

Breathing heavily in an obvious effort to control himself, Berensul said softly, “No. But there is another way, you and Father can resolve your differences--”

Legolas snorted. “Would that it were possible. Believe me, Beren, I’ve no desire to leave my home again so soon, and certainly not Silivren. But you know Father as well as I--he will not cease pursuing this until he has brought me to heel, and I will not, Berensul! I will not! He would try to bring up my niece to be under his thumb, just as I was for all that time! And still he seeks to put me there again!”

Berensul caught his shoulders. “I do not want you to go again so soon.”

Closing his eyes against the sting of tears, Legolas looked down. “Nor do I, brother.” He forced himself to look up and meet his brother’s gaze. “But I must. I will not spend my days endlessly doing battle--as long as Father acts in this fashion, I may as well be in a war party! No,” he snatched up his gear. “I am going.”

“But where?” Berensul asked anxiously. “For how long?”

Legolas stopped, taking a deep breath. Turning back, he replied, “Lórien, to Limloeth and Orthelian. For how long I do not know, but they will have me.”

His eyes sad and reluctant, Berensul slowly nodded. “Silivren will be heartbroken.”

The younger prince had to look quickly away. “Almost as much as I,” he managed to say.

“You will say goodbye to her? Come, Legolas, you cannot go without a word to her.”

“I know.”

***

Silivren, daughter of Berensul, was more confused than ever when her Uncle Legolas suddenly came to tell her that he had to leave. “But where are you going? For how long?” she cried in dismay.

“I am going to stay with your aunt and uncle, Limloeth and Orthelian, in Lothlórien,” Uncle Legolas told her, with a smile on his face that looked rather strange, since his eyes still looked sad.

“Why?” she asked unhappily. “Is this because of the shouting? Grandfather wouldn’t tell me either!” she added resentfully.

Uncle Legolas chuckled--another odd thing, because he obviously didn’t think it was funny--and he said, “One day you will be old enough to understand.” He hugged and kissed her, and left, his face turned away so she couldn’t see it. His shoulders shook a little.

Folding her arms, Silivren muttered, “I wish people would stop saying that! Nobody tells me ANYTHING!”

***

Thranduil had known better than to try to follow Legolas to his chamber, but after a time of trying to collect himself, a desperate terror had come over the elven king. After a hurt like that, he had realized what his youngest son might be inclined to do. In a panic, he had run to the stables, and found Lanthir still there, to his immense relief. All the same, he could not shake the dread in his heart, and sat there instead of going back inside, despite the rain coming in through every opening in the building.

When Thranduil heard light steps coming quickly--and rather stealthily--toward the stables, his heart leapt with anguished terror, for he knew who it was. Legolas came through the door and stopped in his tracks when he saw his father. It made Thranduil want to sob with despair at the way his youngest son’s face hardened with bitterness and rage at the sight of him. Legolas went to Lanthir without a word.

Thranduil frantically made his way to his son’s side, “Do not do this, Legolas, not again.”

Loading Lanthir, Legolas kept his eyes fixedly on the puzzled stallion and did not answer. Thranduil grabbed his shoulders, “By the Valar, Legolas, LOOK at me! I said a terrible thing to you, and it grieves me more than you know--”

“It grieves YOU?!” Legolas cried incredulously and wrenched away from him. His eyes blazing, he demanded, “Even now, you still can only think of yourself?! You respond to everything in this fashion, concerned only for how you are affected, caring nothing for the hurts you do to others. Do not expect me to believe your sorrow is for me as much as it is for your selfish need to assuage your own guilt! Be off, Father, and let me alone!”

“I will not let you go again!” Thranduil shouted, more out of desperation than anger, and imposed his body before the stable door.

Legolas laughed bitterly, “Langcyll called you my jailer, did he? Harsh words to your mind, perhaps, but in my opinion he underestimated the case!”

The words stung Thranduil just as they had when Langcyll had spoken them weeks before. “I am trying to bring an end to this, son.”

Looking utterly disgusted, Legolas mounted Lanthir, “But I shall never consent to the kind of ending you desire, Father. My submission is all that will do for a greedy tyrant such as you. No,” his face seemed to twist with rage. “I will not allow you to stand in my way anymore. Test me if you will, but I do not think even an immovable wall such as you will stand against my horse.”

Rage at the vicious words burst within Thranduil. “As you will,” he hissed, stepping aside. Legolas coldly began urging his horse forward. “But know this, Legolas of Mirkwood,” he growled. “If you depart from here in this fashion yet again, the doors of the palace shall never again open for you! So if you go, do not bother returning, for I will not have you back!”

“That would be a heavy misfortune indeed,” mocked Legolas, and sharply kicked Lanthir into a gallop from the stables, out into the pouring rain.

“Go then, you impudent child! Go! Be gone and may I never see you here again!” Even those words did not cause Legolas to look back. Thranduil ran to the door and watched his son ride away, his hands clenched in rage that suddenly gave way to anguish. Standing with the rain blowing upon his face, the elven king leaned against the doorway of the stables as the first of many great sobs overcame him.

***

As rain pelted down on him with the fury of one who seeks revenge, Legolas urged Lanthir out the gates and into the forest, paying little heed to where he was going. At first it was anger that drove him on and lent him energy, but soon the realization of what had happened sank into the elf, and the cold rain mingled with hot tears upon his face. He did not know how long he rode in this fashion, blinded by grief and anger, until he felt Lanthir tiring of the pace and allowed the horse to slow.

Sighing against a horrible inner emptiness, he murmured, “Forgive me, my friend, I did not mean to abuse you in this fashion for my mad fancy.” He dismounted and the horse looked reproachfully at him, less than pleased by the rain soaking his fur.

Smiling mirthlessly, Legolas led Lanthir through the rain, feeling a need to walk his jumbled thoughts away. His mind rang with the many bitter words that had passed between his father and himself, and he now winced with the memory. But there was no erasing the damage that had been done, and his father’s sincerity at their parting had been clear. *If I go back now, admitting my own fault, even if he did not refuse me entry he would grind my folly at me forever. Nay, the words are spoken, now we must both partake of the consequences. There is no going back.*

He stopped, rubbing Lanthir’s neck, and felt the horse tense suddenly. At last, he bothered to get his bearings. Which presented a new problem: “Where in Middle Earth am I?”

For all his hysterical race into the forest, he had not once thought to watch where he was going, and now, in a rush of combined chagrin and alarm, it dawned upon Legolas: he was lost. Struggling to push down the surge of panic within him (more difficult than usual, for his emotions were far more volatile than normal) he closed his eyes and tried to recall the direction he had taken upon departing the gates. His eyes flew open. He had desired to be out of sight as soon as possible, so he had borne in the direction of the heaviest undergrowth--the least-traveled.

South. He had gone south. And he had ridden hard and for hours in this direction, thoughtlessly. *Ai, what a fool I am! I have never been this far south before, alone or with others, and there are perils within Mirkwood as well--* He leapt to Lanthir’s back, “Fly, my friend, we must get to the edge of the forest, and soon.”

It was already growing dark, but he dared not stop to sleep in this unfamiliar area. His mind was racing as fast as his horse, for he knew many tales of the things that lurked in the deepest, darkest regions of the forest. But Lanthir too, was growing frightened, and needed little urging to ride on.

Though he had grown accustomed to watching for many threats during his years with Langcyll’s war party, one he had yet to encounter, and thus it took him by surprise, unfortunately. He was concentrating on watching for things leaping upon him from the trees, and had only time to shout in alarm and raise a defensive hand when his horse suddenly carried him into what appeared to be strands of great rope stretched between the trees, that unseated him as easily as a blow from a club.

Lanthir whinnied in surprise as Legolas fell to the ground, and the young prince felt his heart leap in terror as the thick strands stuck to him. Spiderweb. “Ride on, Lanthir!” he cried. “Reach the edge of the forest; do not wait for me!” The horse whickered plaintively, but Legolas again shouted for him to run, and at last, Lanthir heeded his rider’s advice and fled.

Legolas looked about him; the rain had lessened, but its soft pattering on the leaves and ground still obscured other sounds. Swallowing hard, he made his way into a clearing and stared in the dimming light, trying to determine the best course of action.

All at once, he heard a crack that was not the sound of water striking a tree, and whirled to see a huge, hideous dark creature vanishing into the trees, as terrible and deadly as he had been told. The spider was on the ground, so Legolas wasted no time but sprang to the branches of the nearest tree and raced west for the edge of the wood. He heard other branches rustling around him and knew at once he was in grave danger.

*Their stings paralyze, and I am alone. If they catch me, I am done for.* Terror at his predicament made it hard to concentrate on the frantic act of climbing and running from branch to branch, tree to tree. Branches rustled to his right and he pivoted left, leaping to another tree only to find another spider directly before him. He dropped lower to the ground and sprang to the next tree, trying to climb up again. The moon was beginning to break through the clouds, and just as he had climbed high enough to where its light might aid him, a great dark body descended upon him and sank sharp fangs into the elf’s back.

With a cry of panic, Legolas simply let go of the branch and fell with a great crash, all the way to the ground. He landed directly upon his right arm with a sickening crack and felt the impact shoot through his whole body, nauseating him. It was a miracle he remained conscious at all. Gasping in fear and pain, disoriented by the poison coursing into his body, he staggered to his feet and began a stumbling run, fighting the urge to scream. The world was spinning wildly and he was uncertain if he was even going in the proper direction toward the edge of the forest. If he could just get out, the spiders might hesitate to expose themselves on the plains.

He was so woozy, and his right arm was useless. It was no wonder he could do little more to defend himself when two more spiders jumped from a tree towards their wounded prey, and one stung him again in the right shoulder. But still he fought, swinging at one and taking out its eye with his knife. *One good thing,* he thought hazily. *At least the poison is numbing.* He could no longer feel his wounded arm.

The sound of cracking, hard spider bodies was all around, and he was barely walking, his head swimming as the poison took hold of him. *No, I must go on…ah, so here my folly has brought me. Perhaps I deserve it.* At last, his body failed altogether and his legs gave way beneath him. As the elf tumbled limply to the ground and lay motionless, the spiders moved in, eager to partake of their now-helpless prey.

*****  



	19. The Ranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Aragorn is referred to as Strider, its Legolass POV. When Legolas is referred to as Alagion, its Aragorns POV. When theyre referred to together as Strider and Alagion, its somebody elses POV.

MINI-CHARACTER GUIDE (a more complete one at the end of the chapter)

Alagion: Legolas’s alias.

Note: When Aragorn is referred to as Strider, it’s Legolas’s POV. When Legolas is referred to as Alagion, it’s Aragorn’s POV. When they’re referred to together as Strider and Alagion, it’s somebody else’s POV.

Flashbacks in this chapter, denoted thus: **

 

 

***

At last, the rain had stopped. The tall, dark human riding along the edges of Mirkwood brushed water from his face gratefully. He had intended to stay well beyond the edges of the forbidding forest, but the storm had led him closer to the scant shelter its great canopy provided from the rain.

Now the moon had broken through the clouds, but a breeze was shaking more water from the leaves onto the Ranger. Glaring up at the branches, he thought, *Time to return to the open plains.* He had never attempted to penetrate the depths of Mirkwood in the twenty-five years he had been wandering, and still saw no reason to try. From what his foster-father had told him, the people inhabiting these woods, elves or not, were unlikely to be much more welcoming to him than the monsters that also dwelt there. Nay, this was not a place to dare alone if one had a choice. The Ranger hated evil creatures, and it was true that Mirkwood had more than her share of them, but the wood elves could take care of them.

Just as the human gained the edge of the woods, he heard a great crash from somewhere not far behind him, and a cry. The Ranger whipped his head around, halting his mount--that had been no beast’s call. More crashes came in his direction, so he rode a few paces outside the wood and turned back, peering into the darkness.

Someone was indeed coming, crashing mindlessly through the thick undergrowth. An elf? The man could not imagine what a mortal (other than himself) would be doing in Mirkwood. And yet…surely a wood elf would not make nearly so much noise--unless in great distress. Though he lacked the superior senses of the elves, the man discerned that more was coming toward him than just one as-yet-unidentified person. And the other noises did not seem to be made by people.

*Spiders! Chasing a victim!* The Ranger dismounted, seizing his bow and drawing an arrow back, heading cautiously into the woods. It did not take him long to discover the source of all the commotion. Several huge, loathsome black spiders were coming down from the trees into a small clearing, where a motionless figure lay prone and helpless on the ground.

An elf. What he was doing alone in the deep woods so far from the wood elves’ usual territory, the man would dearly love to know, but at the moment the fair being was in dire need of help. The nearest spider began spinning a great net of its awful silk, and reached out to ensnare its victim. Then it jerked away with a screech of surprised agony as the man buried an arrow in one of its eyes.

It took less effort than the man expected to convince the spiders that this prey was not worth the trouble of dodging arrows. The Ranger was no elf, but he was more than a fair archer. The spiders scurried away into the trees, apparently giving up in spite of their superior numbers. All the same, the man had no intention of tarrying while the creatures garnered more courage--or worse, reinforcements. He dashed into the clearing past several spider carcasses and swept the limp wood elf up into his arms. “I know not who you are, friend, nor how you came to be in such bad company, but I shall see you to safety,” he told the unconscious figure as he bore him away.

The Ranger placed the elf in front of himself upon his mount’s back and rode a safe distance from the forest. On the plains, safe from spiders at least, he found a copse of small trees that would suit as a camp, and carefully eased the elf down. After setting about making a fire, the man had time to ponder this rather strange event, and examine the wounded elf. As immortals go, he was quite young--perhaps it was youthful inexperience that had got him into that predicament in the first place. The man had seen few wood elves, but this one did not appear like those he had seen or what he had been told. Mirkwood elves were said to be dark, and this elf was fair. Under his green and brown cote, he wore a tunic of silver--Lórien’s color. Very odd. In more serious matters, his right arm was broken, and the man found two puncture wounds where the spiders had struck with their foul poison. Just the same, the poison’s effect had the benefit of keeping the elf unconscious--and probably numb--while the Ranger set the arm.

His ministrations done, there was nothing to do until the stranger came around. The man sat against the base of a tree, silently watching the elf, when he heard something approaching. Startled, he leapt to his feet, a hand on his sword hilt, and turned to see a gray horse running riderless across the grass. The Ranger relaxed and smiled as the horse stopped well out of reach of him, wariness evident in his large black eyes. He knew an elven horse when he saw one, and this one bore a pack--but no elf.

Assuming an unthreatening stance, the Ranger stepped back and spoke to the beautiful gray in elvish, “Hello, friend. You seem to be missing a rider.”

The handsome beast blinked at him, obviously surprised at being so addressed by a mortal. The man laughed, and gestured to the elf, wrapped in a blanket on the ground, “Might this be who you’re looking for?”

The horse’s whicker of recognition confirmed it. Overcoming a horse’s natural fear of fire for the bond to his rider, the gray approached the prone elf and nudged him gently with its soft nose, whuffing quietly. “Don’t worry,” the man told the animal. “He will awaken in a few hours.” He chuckled to himself, “Perhaps in the mean time you might tell me what your friend was doing alone this far from the elven king’s halls. Ah, well, I expect I shall soon learn the answers.”

***

Darkness. Not surprising, really. As he had fallen, Legolas had despaired of ever again seeing the light of day. Still, this was rather odd--other than being surrounded by blackness, this was not what the young elf would have expected of death.

Fog seemed to be swirling around him, and it was impossible to make his mind function, let alone his body. Then, odder still, sensations began reaching him, and it occurred to Legolas that perhaps he was not dead after all. The first thing he recognized as a physical feeling was a painful throbbing of his right arm. The places where the spiders had stung him were still stinging fiercely. He was still damped, but not as drenched as before, and he could feel warmth against his exposed skin. Moreover--he seemed to be wrapped in something tight.

Legolas felt a surge of panic--had he been taken alive by the spiders? Desperately, he tried to move, but his body felt leaden, and the result was barely a twitch. But the tiny motion did serve to tell him that he was not wrapped very tightly. If he could only gain the strength to move…his senses continued returning to their normal sharpness as he lay, waiting for the chance to scramble for freedom. At last, his mind began pulling out of the fog and he could make sense of what his senses told him of his surroundings.

Odd. This did not feel like a spider’s lair. He seemed to be lying on the ground, with a bunched-up cloak under his head. The quiet crackling he heard and the warmth on his face indicated a fire nearby. And he was covered in a blanket, not spider silk. If he had had the strength, Legolas would have sighed with relief. Someone had found him.

Which turned into yet another question: Who?

He would have liked to look around, but the poison had been powerful enough to close his eyes, and he could not seem to force them open. *I hate it when that happens!* There was nothing more disconcerting to Legolas than waking up to see only the backs of his eyelids. Especially when the sound of breathing nearby indicated that someone was with him. He tried again to rouse himself and succeeded only in shifting a little. *I definitely do not like being paralyzed.* He tossed his head.

From not far away came an exultant whinny, and the sound of a large, four-legged creature hurrying toward him. A soft nose brushed his forehead, and Legolas smiled mentally, *Well met, Lanthir. I am glad you reached safety.*

Then he tensed, for now someone else was moving, and they had two legs. To Legolas’s alarm, these were not the smooth, light steps of an elf, but the heavy, long strides of a man. *A MAN rescued me from the spiders?!* The idea seemed absurd. Surely a man would not have braved the vicious creatures to help an elf--for that matter, what was a man doing this far north on the western side of Mirkwood? Legolas felt inklings of suspicion creeping into his still-groggy mind. *If in fact he did risk himself to rescue me--what does he want with me?*

Legolas held perfectly still as the heavy steps halted, and a very large form bent over him. Praying he would have enough strength, the elf readied himself, summoning all he could muster. A hand lifted his chin, reaching for his neck--and Legolas lashed out with a kick from under the blanket, earning a startled grunt and a thud. Swiftly, the prince rolled away and tried to scramble to his feet--a feat easier said than done since the sudden movement made him dizzy, his limbs were sluggish, and he was still tangled in the blanket.

His vision protested as he spun back to face the stranger. The dark blur focused into a dark-clad man, much bigger than Legolas, with the hardened, weathered look of one who had traveled far. At the moment, he knelt in a crouch where the elf’s kick had knocked him, not holding a weapon but with one hand close to the hilt of his sword. His eyes, a lighter gray than Legolas’s, showed combined surprise and wariness as he gazed at the elf silently.

The man made no move, and Legolas also stayed where he was--mainly due to the fact that he feared he would keel over at any moment. His vision danced and his head was swimming dangerously; it was all he could do to face the man steadily. “Who are you?”

The man seemed utterly unintimidated--very strange to Legolas, for every man he had seen (not that he had seen many) tended to react to the sight of elves with combined fear and disbelief. But the man simply folded his arms--apparently not considering Legolas a threat at all--and replied blithely, “You would do well to sit down, Master Elf; the spider poison has not yet fully worn off.”

Legolas blinked and felt still more suspicious--the man had spoken in perfect Elvish! Determining that the man was coming no closer, at least for the moment, he let his eyes scan the campsite. They were on the plains, a safe distance from the dangers of the woods, and it was still night. There was Lanthir, and another packed horse--who also looked to be elf-reared! The sword the man wore also seemed to be of elvish make! Growing more alarmed by the second, Legolas managed a step backward, trying to look casual as he placed a hand against the bole of a tree for support. The intentions of such a character were even less predictable than if he had been saved by an ordinary man. Locking eyes with the human again, he asked in a low voice, “What do you want with me?”

He thought he saw a faint chuckle shake the man’s shoulders, which irritated him. With a rather humorless smile, the man replied, “I found you in the forest, a few moments away from giving the spiders an unexpected feast.” Pausing, with another irritatingly smug look, he added, “You’re welcome.” Legolas tried to narrow his eyes warningly, but only succeeded in increasing his dizziness. The man raised his eyebrows, seeing the elf blinking in attempt to clear his vision. “Better get off your feet, or the poison will do it for you.”

Legolas was torn by indecision--he suspected the man was right; the world was spinning again in a way that said the poison still had a strong hold on him. On the other hand, if he submitted to this mortal’s orders…the elf tarried too long. *Ai! No!* As his vision formed a tunnel, the last thing he saw was the man rising and moving quickly towards him, but Legolas had lost the strength to move.

His hands not on his sword, but rather extended as though to aid the elf, the man hurried over. Not a moment too soon, as for the first time in his life, Legolas fainted.

***

Aragorn caught the elf as he fell, easing him back to the ground. He chuckled to himself; he had not really expected the elf to heed his advice. Maybe the humiliation of this collapse might lead him to take note next time. He heard a whinny of alarm from behind him, and laid the blanket back over the elf before turning to the horse, “Peace, friend, I’ve not harmed him. Even elves have their limits.”

And this one had passed them, and faced the consequences. So suspicious, these wood elves. Aragorn had been raised by the elves of Imladris, but his foster-father had warned him that not all elves were as willing to have dealings with mortals. “Indeed,” he remembered Elrond saying. “Do not think that your ties to me will protect you if you are discovered intruding in Lothlórien or Mirkwood. From Lórien you would be expelled, but worse, from Mirkwood you might never leave.”

As it happened, Elrond had later taken Aragorn to Lórien, and with the lord of Imladris vouching for him, the elves had received him, but Aragorn still had yet to meet an elf of Mirkwood. So far, it appeared Elrond had not been exaggerating the distrustful nature of these people. A faint moan reached his ears; the elf was coming round again. The horse whinnied, and Aragorn grinned, “Maybe this time you’ll use a little more caution.”

He quickly straightened his face, but nearly laughed again when the young elf’s eyes opened. He blinked as though remembering what had happened, and then chagrin crept into his fair features. Slowly sitting up (with more care this time) the elf saw Aragorn watching him. “Who are you?” he asked again.

“You show precious little civility to one who probably just saved your life,” Aragorn said, mildly taunting him.

The elf narrowed dark gray eyes at the Ranger, “I might feel more gratitude if I knew the purpose of such pains by one who has yet to identify himself. If indeed your intentions were entirely selfless.” He sounded slightly mocking.

*Wood elves.* With a rather mocking nod of his head, Aragorn replied, “I am called Strider.”

“‘Strider?’” the elf repeated doubtfully.

“I am of the Dúnedain, the Rangers of the West. My right name would mean nothing to you, noble elf of Mirkwood,” the man said, laughing inwardly at the fabrication. *Knowing how the wood elves view my lineage, if you knew my real name you might try to kill me.* Elrond had warned him of that as well. Raising his eyebrows questioningly, Aragorn went on, “Perhaps now you might deign to give me the honor of your name, Master Elf.”

The elf’s suspicion had not lessened, if anything it had grown. “If you are but a mere Ranger, how is it that you ride an elvish horse, bear elvish arms, and speak an elvish tongue?”

Aragorn debated how much he should tell this strange elf, until deciding that if he wished to ever know the elf’s name, or what had happened, he must get past this mistrust. After all, it was still a troubling question, what an elf was doing alone so far south. (Besides which, the Ranger was perishing with curiosity!) Casually, he told the elf, “I have often passed through Rivendell in my travels. I am a friend to Elrond, Lord of Imladris.”

That got quite an impressed reaction. The elf blinked, looking doubtful, then evidently decided that friendship to Elrond was the only possible explanation for this strange mortal to be favored with such knowledge of the elves. Slowly, his skepticism lessening a bit, he nodded and said coolly, “Forgive me, Strider of the Dúnedain, I fear I have not shown you proper courtesy. We seldom see mortals close to Mirkwood, but your friendship to Lord Elrond would explain your lack of fear.”

Graciously (and laughing inwardly) Aragorn smiled, “Not at all. That little matter settled,” the elf’s expression suggested that he knew the Ranger was mocking him, “what might be your name, Master Elf?”

“I am Alagion, son of Langcyll of Mirkwood.”

“I am honored, son of Langcyll.” *A nice try, Master Elf, but that is no more your name than Strider is mine. Still, I shall let the façade stand for both of us for the time being.*

The elf seemed to have to mustered his dignity to speak again, “I am in your debt, Strider of the Dúnedain. You saved my life.”

Aragorn had thought at first to dismiss all talk of indebtedness, for as a warrior, it could be set aside as the proper deed from one to another, but now…he was intrigued. Elves were not solitary folk, and though sometimes distrustful of strangers, ordinary elves seldom had such great secrets that required the hiding of one’s name. *Therefore, the only conclusion can be that you are far from ordinary, Master Elf. I dislike taking advantage of your debt to me, but perhaps I might prolong our acquaintance. I still know not what a wood elf would be doing down here alone, and I suspect the answer will prove important. I fear you shall not escape so easily.* Smiling slightly, he said, “You are most gracious, Alagion of Mirkwood. I wonder, would you favor me with your company on my journey?”

The elf looked as though traveling with Aragorn were the last thing he wanted, but a life debt was a life debt. “Whither do you ride?”

“Haloel. I received a rather strange message from a friend there a fortnight ago. I shall go to see if he and his people have need of assistance, and these are treacherous parts to travel in by oneself.”

“Then I shall be glad to bear you company,” said the elf.

***

The next two weeks saw Legolas riding with Strider (or whatever his real name was) south towards Haloel, a small kingdom at the southwestern end of the Misty Mountains, not far from Isengard. Legolas knew the region by reputation: wealthy due primarily to the fame of its wines. It had been ruled by the same line of lords for as long as its vines had grown on the slopes of the hills.

Unfortunately, hearing the mere name of the place reminded Legolas of his father. Haloel wines were Thranduil’s favorite (the king had maintained trade with their merchants long after ending it with all other mortals.) Now the remaining stores of Haloel wines in the king’s caverns were the most strictly saved. *As if that association were not painful enough, we drank it at the banquet when Langcyll made his announcement--and then Father drank too much of it later that night.*

Legolas was beginning to think he would rather go to Moria than Haloel.

“Are you widely-traveled in Middle Earth, Alagion?” Strider startled him by saying.

It sometimes made Legolas want to laugh, other times wince when he heard his pseudonym spoken. He knew not what spur of the moment impulse had made him choose that alias (*Liar!*) but now he was stuck with it. Over the days, he and the Ranger had engaged in sporadic conversation. The brief talks were started by whichever one of them grew bored with the uneasy silence, but the dialogue always swiftly became stilted again because neither of them would yield any great information about himself. Then they would lapse back into silence again.

Occasionally, when stiff small talk tried their patience, they broke the monotony by baiting each other. It was in that frame of mind that Legolas replied, “Somewhat.” *Let us see what the mortal makes of that!*

Not much; Legolas thought he detected a shrug, but Strider dismissed the cryptic answer--and apparently was still too bored to leave off. He tried again, with a more specific question that Legolas would not be able to dodge so easily, “Have you ever been to Haloel before?”  
  
“Nay,” the elf said, abandoning the thought of goading him.

“How fares your arm?” That had been a habitual inquiry from the Ranger, and it irritated Legolas no end to admit that Strider had done an impressive job of setting it. Had Legolas been mortal, he might have been crippled, for the bone had been broken in two places by his fall. As it was, it had been expertly set (with skill comparable to an elvish healer!) and Legolas had been able to take it out of the sling after a week, though it still ached a little. It would not hamper his fighting or shooting.

“Well, thank you.” Legolas, too, was growing weary of this stony silence. After all, he reasoned to himself, it was not as if Strider was not within his rights to ask Legolas to accompany him on his journey. It was a great risk to travel alone at these times, and Haloel was not so very far from Lórien. Even if the Ranger wished the elf to accompany him all the way to the province, it was not much out of Legolas’s way.

Mentally, Legolas sighed. *I have been taking out my own sorrows on one who does not deserve it--indeed, my debt to him is genuine, for I should most definitely be dead but for this Strider. My ill feelings should not be directed at this mortal.*

The resolution had an unforeseen consequence. For the past days of travel, Legolas had successfully distracted himself from his own troubles by directing his hostility toward the mortal who had so effectively (yet supposedly selflessly) bound Legolas to his service. But now, the memory of the events leading to his departure from Mirkwood and all he held dear had begun to hammer mercilessly at the son of Thranduil. During the last days of the ride, he found it harder and harder to keep his mind off his family, and there were times when such utter despair swept through him that he caught Strider staring at him--meaning that it must be showing on his face.

The question occupied his mind more and more as his trip with Strider took him further and further from Mirkwood. *Will I ever be able to go home again?*

He could not find the answer. But the questions, and the painful memories, refused to give him peace.

**

“You’re going away? But where? Why, Uncle Leg’las?”

“Running away again, little brother?”

“Do not do this, Legolas, not again!”

**

That night, Legolas was wrenched from sleep by an urgent shaking. “Alagion! Awaken!”

With a gasp of relief, the elf escaped the nightmares that had been drowning him. It took a moment to recall where he was, or the idenity of the dark-haired human looking down at him with concern. “Strider.”

“Are you well?” The Ranger smiled wryly at the elf’s shaky nod. “Bad dreams?”

Legolas nodded, trying to shrug it off. *Worse: memory.* Aloud, he said, “I shall keep watch, if you wish to rest. Now I am awake,” he added in a weak attempt at humor.

Strider looked surprised at the elf’s amiable tone--until today, Legolas had been barely civil when he spoke to the man. But the Ranger accepted Legolas’s offer and went to his blankets. Legolas rose and paced a bit around the camp, attempting to walk of the shadows of the dreams that still insidiously clung to him.

**

“Even now, all you can think of is yourself!”

“I am trying to bring an end to this, son!”

**

Legolas looked up at the stars, trying to find solace in them. But the truth of those last bitter words would not be repressed. *He was. He wished to make amends. It was I who would not allow it, I who refused to forgive.*

**

“I have no regrets at having chosen to join Langcyll’s company--”

“Did Tathar, do you suppose?”

**

*He did not mean it. He did not mean to hurt me. We had both spoken too hastily in anger. I knew it even then, and still I would not let him take it back.*

**

“Langcyll called you my jailer, did he? He underestimated the case!”

**

*I spoke so to wound him, far more than he did to me. I cannot believe I parted with him on such terms. Will I ever have the chance to right it?*

**

“Go, then! Go! And may I never see you here again!”

**

*Will my father ever accept me again after that?*

Trying to distract himself, Legolas glanced at the slumbering Ranger. Even asleep, there was that tension of one accustomed to the perils of lone traveling, and the prince had no doubt that Strider would be up like a shot, sword in hand, at the slightest noise. Men were so strange. Strider did not look to be more than a few decades old, but in that short time he had gained many skills it had taken Legolas centuries to learn. Yet men did not have the time necessary to gain the understanding that was needed of the world (at least for elves.) Legolas was not sure if that improved or lowered his opinion of humans.

*For all we traveled through Gondor, we saw little of men. At least this detour may prove useful in that respect, for I should like to know more of their ways.*

The idea of learning more of men reminded Legolas of his father, and he sighed involuntarily. Then, everything seemed to remind him of someone or something in Mirkwood. The question came again to his mind. *Will I ever be able to put this right?* He shook his head to himself, dispelling the dismal thoughts. *There is no point in brooding over it now, for I can do nothing until I have discharged my debt to Strider. When that is done, I shall decide what to do. Perhaps I will seek my sister’s counsel in Lórien.* And, he reasoned, twirling an arrow in his fingers, they were only a day or so out of Haloel. This Strider (now that Legolas was thinking a little more objectively) seemed to so far to have no sinister intentions--at least not concerning Legolas. With luck, he would release Legolas after they had found the Ranger’s friend in Haloel.

Sounds in the distance pricked the elf’s sensitive ears, and he froze, trying to identify them. He turned his head towards the mountains; the sounds of people were coming across the plains from the hills of Haloel. Not orcs. A scouting party from Haloel? It seemed odd; the small kingdom hosted a large and well-protected fortress at the center of its vineyards. In the face of any threat, its people could retreat to the castle and even withstand a siege for years, from what Legolas had been told of the place.

So what would men of Haloel be doing so far beyond its borders, heavily armed, but not carrying any shipments of wine (as Legolas’s superior hearing informed him.) The elf pondered this--for the humans were still too far away for their mortal senses to detect the travelers--and decided to err on the side of caution.

“Strider.” The human opened his eyes and sat up at once, unable to hear the approaching people but alert for trouble. He raised questioning eyebrows at Legolas, who told him, “We have visitors approaching.”

The human rose and walked to where Legolas was standing, gazing curiously into the darkness. “They are beyond my senses as yet. From whence do they come?”

Legolas pointed. “They come almost directly from Haloel, bearing many weapons, but no caravan of wine.”

That got the Ranger’s immediate attention. “The lord of Haloel is not in the habit of sending out war parties beyond his realm.” Legolas nodded. “What think you, Alagion?”

The prince regarded the distant men only for a moment before replying, “I think we might do well to give them a wide berth until we know more of their intentions.”

“I suspect you are right. Let us break camp and ride clear of their path. How much time have we until dawn?”

“Perhaps two hours. If we depart now, we can be well beyond their sights by sunrise,” said Legolas.

As they re-loaded and mounted their horses, Strider added, “We might also take a less direct route to the castle until I am able to contact Sarovin. I suddenly grow wary of Haloel.”

The plan was successful, and the sun found Legolas and Strider leading their horses carefully toward the foothills as they approached Haloel from the north, rather than from the east as most travelers would. Coming around a cluster of boulders that conveniently shielded them from view, the elven warrior and Ranger beheld at last the land of Haloel. Neat arbors of vines covered the green, rolling hills as far as the eye could see, and a small river meandered lazily through the central valley, with little dwellings and clusters of houses dotting the landscape. At the center of the valley sat the castle, a great stone construction that would easily hold all the residents of this fair land.

Fair it was, but what they saw troubled the man and the elf greatly. It was late spring; the fields should have been filled with workers tending Haloel’s famous grapes. But instead, among the green vineyards stood a multitude of tents, and many armed warriors milling about. Beside Legolas, Strider narrowed his eyes. “A siege camp,” he observed. “Haloel has been invaded.”

But Legolas could see further, all the way to the men guarding the walls of the castle. He could also make out more details of the encamped soldiers. “A siege, yes,” said the elf. “But not by foreign invaders. Remember the men we passed bore the armor and weapons of Haloel’s guard. They were not fleeing this attack, but patrolling outside the borders for any who approached the castle. And these men in the camp below carry the flags and weapons of the lord of Haloel.”

Strider stared at him, then squinted down into the valley in a vain attempt to see for himself. After a moment--and sounding slightly chagrined--the Ranger admitted, “My eyes cannot reach so far. What can you see at the castle?”

Distracted by the troubles in the valley, it did not occur to Legolas to be smug. “The men who hold the fort are not soldiers. They bear arms with without skill--and they wear the garb of peasants.” Turning to face Strider, he concluded grimly, “The folk of Haloel are rebelling against their lord. His symbol is on the tents and attacking soldiers. The farmers have taken the castle, which is built to withstand an assault, but the soldiers have the advantage in weapons and training. Seeing only this, I know not how long their defenses can hold.”

If the war being waged below them unsettled Legolas, the elf knew that Strider was still more disturbed, for he had no way of knowing the whereabouts of his friend. Glancing worriedly at the elf, Strider smiled slightly, “Perhaps if we could locate Sarovin, he might tell us what led to this revolt.”

“Have you any idea where he might be, or even if he still lingers in Haloel?” Legolas asked.

“His message said only that trouble was stirring in Haloel.” The Ranger chuckled, “When I see him, I shall pronounce him master of the understatement.”

“Indeed,” Legolas grimaced, gazing at the soldiers constructing a massive battering ram down by the river. He knew naught of the circumstances behind this siege, but his knowledge of sieges already lent his sympathy to the besieged.

This was the first siege the son of Thranduil had actually witnessed firsthand, and already he thought it worse than his mentors had described. War of any kind turned his stomach, but the siege had a horrible slowness to it that drained the life out of both sides until one was exhausted or starved into defeat. On the field, the soldiers of Haloel’s lord trained and planned at their leisure, able to bring in supplies, but the castle itself was a fortress not easily penetrated, and such an assault would certainly lead to many casualties.

But the situation for the peasants within the castle was still more dire. They would be able to fight only as long as their food and water supplies held out, and if they did not repel the attack before then…they would either be starved out or taken. Legolas could not be certain how the peasants were faring just by looking, but the men stationed on the wall held their bows with an awkward desperation of those who knew all too well the stakes of this fight.

It was then, while Legolas was observing the besieged peasants, that one of the men on the wall caught his eye. A smile quirked the elf’s lips. This man wore not the simply spun raiment of the farmers, but the rough gear of a Ranger, and a sword made by the craftsmen of Gondor. “I think I have found your friend, Strider of the Dúnedain.”

***

Sarovin, son of Tarodin, was organizing the peasants of Haloel atop the castle’s outer wall when one of the watchers called to him. “There’s someone up in the hills, north!”

The Ranger ran to the north battlements, staring up the face of the northern hills. “Where?”

“Ducking behind the trees and rocks, but they’re definitely making their way here.”

Sarovin scowled in the direction the guard had pointed. Lord Fompran--the now-deposed lord of Haloel--was constantly sending bands of soldiers to harass Sarovin’s men, and the Ranger had no doubt that there were also agents sent by Fompran within the castle. But Sarovin was too busy keeping the farmers rallied to seek them out.

His attention was grabbed suddenly by the sight of two cloaked figures popping out from behind a copse of trees and moving swiftly and stealthily toward the castle. “Strange,” he murmured. The pair were taking great pains to keep obstacles between themselves and Fompran’s camp, but making no effort to hide from the view of Sarovin and his men within the fort.  
  
“Could they be friends?” asked one of the guards, voicing Sarovin’s thought.

“I do not know,” the Ranger murmured. “They’re certainly eager to get here. I would know more of their intentions before granting them entrance…but we’ve no way to signal them without alerting Fompran’s camp to their presence.”

“Ho, Sarovin, look!” exclaimed another.

The Ranger cursed. “It appears Fompran’s men are going to find out they’re here no matter what. Lend me your bow, Dersten,” he said to the farmer nearest him. “Whatever their purpose in coming here, I do not want Fompran and his marauders to learn of it before us.”

The two new arrivals were picking their way down a hillside toward the castle, but the route would take them perilously close to the siege camp. Now the clamor of the soldiers in the camp was obscuring the guard leaning indolently against the very boulder that the strangers were about to sneak around.

Sarovin took aim at the soldier, and the rest of his men exchanged looks. “Keep your bows ready for anyone who approaches the wall,” he ordered. “But do not fire unless I order it.”

The guards obeyed his command, and Sarovin readied himself. The strangers came from behind the rock, intending to dart toward the cover of another, but found themselves face-to-face with a siege guard. Before the man could sound the alarm, an arrow was embedded in his neck. The strangers froze, staring up at the wall where the shot had come from. “Ready your bows!” Sarovin ordered. To the newcomers, he murmured, “You have ten seconds to declare yourselves before I drop both of you.”

Almost as if he had heard Sarovin, the taller and larger of the two pulled back his hood. “Hold!” Sarovin exclaimed immediately. “Hold your fire! Bring a rope ladder at once!” he shouted to several men nearby. “Make ready to cover them!” Disregarding caution, he beckoned vigorously at the two to approach the castle.

Inevitably, the soldiers in Lord Fompran’s camp noticed and raced to cut off the intruders’ access to the castle. Sarovin’s men fired a volley of arrows at them--rather badly coordinated, but sufficient to create a gap for the newcomers. The Ranger watched anxiously as the two ran, swords drawn, towards the wall where the peasants had dropped the ladder. “Come on, my friend, come on!”

“That is the man you sent for?” Dersten asked. “Who is that with him?” The farmer indicated the fleet, slight figure just behind Strider.

“I do not know, but if he travels with Strider, he is a friend,” Sarovin said firmly.

***

Aragorn sprinted for the ladder, but a group of Haloel soldiers were close on his and Alagion’s heels. A larger mob of farmers had gathered on the wall, whether shouting in encouragement or warning, he did not know. He gained the ladder and started up, but knew simply by the sounds behind that the soldiers were far too close.

The Ranger whirled, preparing to do battle, but Alagion was between him and the soldiers, shouting, “Go!” Going for his bow and quiver, Alagion threw off his cloak, but in so doing, his long golden hair, fair features, and pointed ears came into plain view of all.

A great incredulous cry went up from all directions, and when Alagion notched an arrow and took aim at the pursuing soldiers, it was all Aragorn could do not to laugh. The soldiers--all thirteen of them--literally skidded to a halt in their tracks. Not that it surprised Aragorn with his experiences among elves, for even without seeing his face, Alagion looked formidable. Any ordinary man unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of his steely-black gaze would doubtlessly suffer a sudden loss of nerve. Alagion glanced back at Aragorn and again shouted for him to climb, and this time the Ranger did so. By now the soldiers had recovered their courage and charged the elf en masse, roaring with all the pumped-up bravado of those terrified of their foe.

Alagion proved their fears justified. Six men fell to his arrows in the time it took those watching to gasp, then Aragorn gained the top of the wall. Sarovin gave him a hand over, and there was no need to shout down to Alagion, for the elf had heard. He turned and flew nimbly up the ladder while pulling the back end behind him so the soldiers could not follow him up. The peasants of Haloel were as wary of him as the soldiers, and only Aragorn and Sarovin did not shrink back when the elf jumped gracefully over the thick outer wall.

For a moment, the elf, Rangers, and rebelling farmers simply stared at each other. Finally, it was Sarovin who broke the silence. “Well, Strider, I must say you certainly know how to make an entrance.”

Aragorn looked from his fellow Ranger to Alagion to the men, who were still openly gawking at the elf, and his sense of the ridiculous got the better of him. He began to laugh, and Sarovin quickly joined him, while Alagion and the other men stared as though wondering what could possibly be so funny. Catching his breath, Aragorn said, “You are one to talk, Sarovin. ‘Trouble stirring’ indeed. Never before have I seen trouble so stirred!”

“I knew you would make haste if I piqued your curiosity. And I see you are in favor with the elves, as always.” Seeming to remember his manners, Sarovin bowed to Alagion. “You have my thanks for your assistance, Master Elf. I am Sarovin, son of Tarodin of Bree.”

The elf bowed in turn, “I am honored, son of Tarodin. I am Alagion, son of Langcyll of Mirkwood.” *And there it is again; he hesitates at this name,* thought Aragorn triumphantly. *I wonder when I shall hear his true identity.*

“Mirkwood,” the murmured word rippled through the crowd of men. Aragorn dared a quick glance around and saw no open hostility, to his relief, but a good deal of wariness and doubt, even some suspicion. *How long it has been since men and elves could meet without fear,* the heir of Isildur thought with a pang of regret. Turning back to Sarovin, he gestured at the siege camp--which looked like a disturbed hornet’s nest with soldiers running about shrieking over the elf and second Ranger’s arrival. “How did this come to pass?”

His expression turning grim, Sarovin gestured to the farmers, “Just as all revolutions come to pass, my friend. Perhaps the people of this realm would be better suited to tell you of it.”

They were more than willing, as rebelling subjects are always willing to tell their part. “The lords of Haloel were wise and just once,” said one whom Sarovin identified as Dersten. “But not Fompran. He ruled Haloel in a prosperous time, but thoughts the fruits of our labor should benefit him alone. The kingdom grew richer, but we grew poorer.”

“He’s quadrupled the taxes of the workers since gaining power!” another man put in indignantly. “And at the same time, took control of the presses and wineries, paying us less than ever for our grapes and labor. We’re farmers, not slaves!”

“For years since the last tax raises, we’ve been petitioning Fompran to lower them again, or else pay more for our labor,” added another. “At first he would hear us and then dismiss us, now he will not even see our representatives. Says it’s our duty to do as we’re told by our lord!”

Aragorn grimaced and saw Alagion looking equally dismayed (despite a noble effort by the elf to display outward neutrality.) *I should have sent him on his way before coming to the castle,* the Ranger thought. *He did not need to be brought into this.*

Dersten went on, “Three months ago, we decided to stop working the vineyards until Fompran heard our petition and negotiated a compromise. He and his soldiers came and took over the fields, presses, and wineries, saying we would work on his terms or not at all, and he’d evict all of us, and our families.” The man smiled grimly. “But he’d left the castle practically empty to take over all the fields.” Several of the men smirked. “So we decided that if he put us out of our homes, we would return the favor until he saw fit to parley with us.”

“Not much chance of that happening,” muttered someone. “Greedy tyrant.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Aragorn saw Alagion make an almost imperceptible movement. One who knew naught of elves might have dismissed it as merely shifting position, but to Aragorn…it looked like a wince. *Interesting.* Aloud, Aragorn said, “I can guess what role you had in all of this, Sarovin.”

The other Ranger chuckled, “Quite likely. It was I who encouraged Dersten and his folk to refuse to work, and when the situation took a turn for the worse--I could scarcely fail to see it through.”

“Why did you send for Strider?” Alagion spoke up at last. Several of the men jumped. Aragorn had to stifle a laugh.

Sarovin smiled knowingly, “From the moment I arrived here, I thought Strider’s skills would be of use. These men have need of a strong leader, one stronger than I.” The last remark was directed again at Aragorn.

“What sort of leadership is needed?” Aragorn asked carefully.

There were several stifled groans. Dersten jerked his head at the open courtyard below. “Look for yourself,” he said with a note of acute embarrassment in his tone.

Aragorn and Alagion peered over the wall down into the courtyard. The clamor below, Aragorn had assumed, was the sound of men training and rigging more defenses. Now, with Alagion looking discomfited beside him, he saw his mistake. If the rebels’ food and water was rationed, one commodity was clearly in no short supply: wine. The courtyard below looked more like a tavern at closing time than a fort under siege.

Simultaneously (and rather slowly) the elf and Ranger turned their heads back to face Sarovin and Dersten. Rather unnecessarily, Alagion said simply, “Oh.”

Apparently torn between mortification and laughter, Sarovin raised his hands helplessly, “You must understand, my friends, these are not soldiers.” *You can say that again,* thought Aragorn. “They are merely farmers who have been pushed too far by a tyrannical lord. Even the most reasonable people have their limits. But now they’ve acted,” he shrugged. “They’ve not the faintest idea what to do next. And when they’re not guarding the walls or the gates, as you see, they’ve too much time and wine on their hands.”

“Does the lord of Haloel know of…that?” Alagion asked quietly from behind Aragorn. He seemed to be taking an interest in the situation against his own will.

“Not likely, for I think he has similar troubles in his own camp,” chuckled Dersten ironically. “It is a long ride to the nearest neighboring realms to trade for food and supplies, but wine is something we in Haloel have in near-unlimited abundance. So when our men are not on duty, I suppose they wish to distract themselves from the stress of waiting this siege out. The same seems to be happening in the siege camp, from what we can tell.”

Another man laughed, “And we have one advantage now. We have two Rangers and an elf. They have Fompran.”

Neither Aragorn nor Alagion had yet seen the lord of Haloel, but judging by the roar of laughter that went up from all (including Sarovin) it must be a rather bizarre comparison.

***

Fompran, Lord of Haloel by birth, was at that moment listening to the report from his soldiers about the incident at the wall. When the men were finished with their account, he cursed loudly and hurled his full goblet (it was always kept full) across the tent, leaving a red stain on the canvas wall. “Another Ranger is bad enough,” he griped in his nasal voice, “but an elf?! That’s all we need, immortals sticking their noses in this!”

“The elf and new Ranger are in the castle now, my lord.”  
  
Limply flapping his rather fat hands for emphasis, the embattled lord exclaimed, “Well…then…DO something about it, Vrall!”

“What, you lordship?” his captain asked dubiously. “We haven’t even come close to succeeding in a direct assault against the castle--it is a fortress, after all. And we have no way of knowing where they are now.”

“Fah!” Fompran waved his hand dismissively (upsetting another silver goblet.) “We’ve got spies in that accursed castle, don’t we? Signal them!”

Vrall, hoping to avoid getting another glass of wine in the face (which his lord was wont to do) stepped back hastily. “What message do you wish sent, my lord?”

Wrinkling his nose and brow in thought, Fompran grumbled to himself for a moment before saying, “Without those Rangers leading them, that rabble would fall apart. I want them disposed of.”

“And the elf?”

“Kill him too, of course,” Fompran said in exasperation. Vrall started to depart, then the wheels of Fompran’s mind slowly began turning, and a better scheme popped into his head. “Wait!” Rubbing his fingers against his double chin, the lord murmured, “Perhaps I’m too quick. We want those traitors hurt in the worst possible way. Perhaps we can do worse than simply killing their foreign leaders.”

“Capture, my lord? That will be difficult,” Vrall said doubtfully.

“Well, as far as I know, it is your JOB to come up with the correct strategy, Vrall,” Fompran said petulantly. “You ARE after all the captain of my guard!”

Clearing his throat, Vrall said hastily, “Of course, my lord. Say only what you wish, and I will see it done.”

“Hmph, that’s a better attitude. Yeeesss, let us see. Very well, capture the two Rangers and get them back to the camp. Nothing will demoralize those worthless rebels like seeing their leaders executed in full view.”

“It shall be so, my lord. And what of the elf?”

“I don’t want any trouble with any elf lord, Vrall. Kill the elf in the castle--nothing fancy. If anyone comes sniffing around, we can blame it on the rebels. Hmmmm. Yes, I’m liking this more and more. Better yet, if we can enlist the aid of the elves seeking justice for their kinsman, the castle will fall even sooner.”

“Yes, my lord,” Vrall’s voice sounded decidedly skeptical, and Fompran glared at the captain over the rim of his goblet. “How many of your spies do you wish to set on this?”

“All of them. I don’t want any foul-ups. They can use any method they please, but tell them: Capture the Rangers. Kill the elf.”

***

Vrall, captain of Lord Fompran’s guard (by birth) was a little irritated to find their messenger was quite hopelessly drunk when Vrall came to order the sending of their lord’s message. “Curse it!” He saw little harm in letting his men indulge in Haloel’s chief export, but one would think Tegas would have the sense not to swill so much right before his shift.

“It’s almost twilight, Vrall,” another of his men said worriedly. “If we lose the sun, the mirror will be useless.”

“Well, Tegas is in no fit state; he’d jumble the message,” Vrall scowled. He did NOT desire returning to report the delay to Fompran; he was down to one wine-free tunic. “I’ll do it.”

His lieutenant looked doubtful. “Do you know the light codes, sir?”

With a shrug, the burly soldier replied, “A little, yes…and how hard can this message be, Nasemar? Tegas can even tell me the code, all I need is a steady hand to move the mirror!”

“Right,” Nasemar shoved the drunk messenger aside so Vrall could take the mirror. “All right, Tegas, snap out of it! Tell us how to send a message!”

Grinning stupidly and blinking rapidly, Tegas replied, “Well, I canna really tell ya that, Vvvvvrall! D’pends on whatcha wanna slend!”

Throwing up his hands with another curse, Vrall said, “We must say, ‘Capture Rangers, kill elf.’ How do I do that?”

Springing up eagerly, Tegas exclaimed, “Why, thad’s no problem--I could slend thad in my sllleeep! Here, lemme do it!”

He tried to take the mirror, but Vrall and Nasemar irritably shoved him away. “Get off, you drunken sot, you’d wind up telling them to join the rebels! Just tell me the code!”

“Blah! Alright, alright, don’ hit me! Id’s very simple! ‘Capdture’ is two short blinks, then a long blink. ‘Rangers’ is long blink, short blink, long blink. ‘Kill’ is one short blink, then two long blinks. ‘Elf’ is one long blink. Nnnow, didja ged all that?” Tegas folded his arms at Vrall with dramatic expectancy.

“Of course--if a drunken fool like you can manage it, a babe could. Now,” narrowing his eyes in concentration, Vrall angled the mirror to catch the sun. “One short blink--bah! Onnneeee shorrrtttt blinnn--curse it! This is harder than it looks! One short--there! Now another short…argh!”

***

From their hiding place in a storeroom in the castle, several of Lord Fompran’s guards saw the light blinking from the signal mirror. Having been indulging in a little too much themselves, it took a minute for their appointed watchman to realize the signal was there. “Oy, men, camp’s sending a message!”

“Huh?” “What?” “Where?” “Why?” “How?” “What’s it say?”

“Shaddap, shaddap, I’m trying to note it! Uh, short blink, long blink, long blink, uh--wait. There, there! Here it is…short-long-long, short…they say… ‘Kill Rangers, Capture Elf!’”

The men cheered lustily as though they’d already won a great victory. “Finally, something to do!”

“Grrr, hand me that wineskin!”

“Oy, Sulitron, we’re on duty now!”

“Bugger duty; we need our strength! Everyone have a snort!”

“Right you are, Sulitron, pass that skin around.”

“Ahhh, now I’m ready. Ready, men?”

“Right then, let’s get to work, gentlemen. We’ve got an elf to catch and two Rangers to kill. Time to make some plans!”

***

“An elf!” “Look, Kartzel, he really is an elf!” “I’ve never seen an elf before!”

*I could never have guessed,* thought Legolas, suppressing the urge to sigh. Sarovin and Strider were busy locking up all the storerooms of wine (no small task), and now the rebelling peasants of Haloel were assembling in the central courtyard--where they had immediately begun gawking at Legolas.

The prince of Mirkwood had tried leaving his hood up, but that only led the farmers to lean and crane their necks still more for a peek at his elvish features. (It also drew the Rangers’ attention, and Legolas had begun to translate the faint quirk of Strider’s mouth as suppressed laughter.)

Strider and Sarovin reappeared from another door--chasing several rebels out before them--and Sarovin locked it, tossing the massive key ring to Strider. “That’s all the store rooms. They’ll need a battering ram of their own to get those doors open.”

Several of the nearer men forgot their fascination with Legolas and turned to protest loudly. Strider raised his hands over the shouts, “Please, friends, there’s no need to mourn your lost pastime. You’ll soon be too busy for wine!”

The farmers exchanged puzzled glances, and then Sarovin jumped in. “I’ve warned you all that there is much to be done if you are to have any hope of winning this fight. And the first of those things is to leave off the wine!”

There came a renewed chorus of shouts, and then Strider startled everyone (Legolas included) with an impressive bellow. “You have NO CHANCE of holding the castle if you spend your days drinking instead of fighting. This is not a game, men of Haloel. Look beyond the wall! Look well! The soldiers without are making more weapons and building a battering ram to break down your gates. You all know Lord Fompran better than I! When his men take this castle, and you, AND your families, what mercy will he show you?”

Silence now hung over the crowd of farmers, and Legolas saw fear and grim determination replacing resistance on many faces. *It is well that Strider has reminded them of the stakes. There are only two possible outcomes of a siege.*

One of the peasants grimly stepped forward, “I will never submit myself and my family to Fompran’s rule again!”

“Nor I!” “Nor I!” “Enough!” “We SHALL win this fight!” “We’ve no choice but to win!”

Another, who Legolas recognized as Dersten from earlier on the battlements, addressed the Rangers. “What must we do? If Fompran takes the castle, we’ll be lucky if all he does is take our possessions and land and exile us. What must we do to prepare and fortify our defenses?”

Without thinking, Legolas spoke up. “Fompran’s soldiers have the advantage of you in skill at arms. You must learn to bear weapons properly against your foes.”

An awestruck murmur rippled through the men. *Confound it, what am I thinking? This is not my fight! I am only here because I owe my life to Strider. I should not be meddling in the affairs of mortals!*

But Sarovin and Strider were nodding in agreement. “And you must organize,” Strider went on, apparently sensing Legolas’s discomfort. “Each man has a role to play, and a task to perform if you are to mount a proper defense. And it must begin now. How many among you are at all skilled with arms?” Without waiting for hands to raise, he pointed to one side of the courtyard. “Over there.” They moved without hesitation at his command. “Now, how many are builders, carpenters, or craftsmen? Over there. And how many are healers? Good, that corner…”

And so it went. After splitting the farmers into groups, Strider approached Legolas. The elf suppressed a sigh, for he thought he could guess what the Ranger wanted. But what caught him completely by surprise was the man’s understanding of his dilemma. “I had not the chance before to ask you to forgive me, Alagion of Mirkwood. Though these are not your people, I fear I have drawn you into this conflict. And I cannot think of any way to see you safely away now that you are here.”

Startled into frankness, Legolas replied, “You need not apologize, for I am still in your debt. And,” he smiled wryly as he admitted, “Even if I could depart, I should find it difficult to leave these people behind when I might be of help.” Strider also smiled, and again the elf thought, *Even for a friend of Lord Elrond, you understand the minds of elves far too well for just an ordinary Ranger. Who are you?*

But the Ranger was speaking again, “I am afraid your little archery demonstration this afternoon left you with quite a reputation. Not that the way of elves with weapons is not already legendary. And then there’s the little matter of the utterly miserable lack of skill among the rebels in that same area.” He and Legolas both chuckled, knowing it to be the truth. “Your assistance training the men of Haloel to defend their castle walls with the bow would be of great help.”

Legolas nodded (actually, it seemed closer to a bow of respect). “I shall see what I can teach them.” Strider could not seem to suppress a grin any longer, and Legolas found himself returning it--they both knew teaching these green farmers to defend the castle against a siege would be quite an arduous task. As they walked to where the newly-designated free soldiers of Haloel were waiting to be trained, the elf and Ranger shared a wry laugh. “What by the Valar have we got ourselves into?”

 

*****

 

 

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Sarovin: a Ranger, older than Aragorn, who is guiding the peasants of Haloel in their fight for freedom  
Dersten: one of the rebelling farmers  
Kartzel: another farmer  
Fompran: deposed Lord of Haloel  
Vrall: the captain of Lord Fompran’s guard  
Tegas: Lord Fompran’s messenger  
Nasemar: Vrall’s lieutenant  



	20. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

*** Denotes a change in POV or scene break  
** Denotes flashbacks (none in this chapter)  
* Denotes unspoken thought

Remember: When Legolas is referred to as “Alagion,” it’s Aragorn’s POV. When Aragorn is referred to as “Strider,” it’s Legolas’s POV.

 

*****

 

Crowded together behind piled sacks of grain in a tower store room, the spies of Lord Fompran planned their strike against the foreigners who were aiding the rebels. “How by any holy are we going to get that elf out of the castle?” demanded Essad. “This place is crawling with rebels!”

“Never without being seen, Essad, so get rid of that idea,” said Sulitron.

“Sounds like our best bet is to hit ‘em when they’re all together,” mused Nerum. “Take out the Rangers and grab the elf in the confusion, then get ourselves and him over the wall before the rabble realize what’s happening.”

Sulitron leaned against the cold stone wall, narrowing his eyes in the dim light of their lantern. “We won’t have much time before the whole rebel army converges on us.”

“Good point,” said another man, grimacing. “We’ll probably have to strike when all three are up on the wall. Kill the Rangers and then grab the elf and jump. Wall’s high, but not so bad. At most we’d break a few bones.”

“Speak for yourself, Telsun,” snorted Essad. “I’d prefer to keep my limbs intact.”

“Still, Telsun’s right; it’s our best chance of accomplishing our task AND getting out of there alive. I’ll take a broken leg over an arrow to the throat.” Sulitron looked briskly at his men. “Then we’re agreed. We’ll have to keep a constant watch; as soon as we see all three of them together on the wall, we strike. The less time they have to train those rebels, the better.”

“Right!” the men chorused enthusiastically. Sulitron nodded firmly and went to keep watch on the rebels. His men watched him go.

“Well,” said Essad cheerfully. “In the meantime, no reason why we can’t relax. See if there’s a few bottles of good stuff in that crate you’re leaning on, Telsun.”

The other spy looked doubtful, “We might have to move at any time.”

“Ahh, relax, you stiff log. Take a look out there; they’re all in the courtyard! What’s the harm in having a little nip while we wait?”

Telsun peaked out the window; sure enough, both Rangers and the elf were in the courtyard, trying to teach the rebels how to be soldiers. So, with a shrug and a sly grin, he turned and pried the lid off the nearest crate, pulling out a bottle.

***

In the center of the courtyard, Aragorn was desperately biting his lip, and thought he would die any minute from trying to hold back his laughter. Sarovin’s forehead was turning red with the effort of stifling his own mirth. The two Rangers had been teaching swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat to a group of rebels, but the instruction had come to a halt when Alagion’s group had become interesting.

As for Alagion, the elf appeared torn between howling with laughter and beating his head against the wall in frustration. “Loosen your fingers, Yalc,” he urged the lanky farmer currently trying to master the bow.

The aspiring archer did so--and the arrow promptly slipped from the bowstring. With an aggravated curse, Yalc tried again to notch the arrow--and this time succeeded in releasing it prematurely, forcing Aragorn to duck. The Ranger straightened, grimacing at the elf, and got a less than sincere glare in response. “If you consider my instruction lacking, Strider of the Dunedain, perhaps you should take over and I shall teach the sword.”

Aragorn laughed and waved the mocking proposal off. “Thank you for the offer, Master Elf, but I think swordsmanship is best taught by us.” None of the other men (not even Sarovin) saw any change in the elf’s expression, but to Aragorn’s trained eye, Alagion’s face revealed a definite ruffle at that remark. He hastily raised his hands and said mildly, “And your prowess with the bow is unequaled--you are better suited than I to teach it.”

But the young elf clearly had no intention of letting Aragorn’s assumption go unanswered. With his mouth quirking just slightly to the side, Alagion spoke in a near-drawl, “I think you will find that an elf is better suited to teach the use of ANY weapon!”

This time, not a man among them missed the inherent challenge. Aragorn folded his arms and grinned openly at the elf (while sizing him up.) *It’s no wonder you were in so much trouble when I found you, Elfling,* he thought with more amusement than censure. *Your greenness will get you killed.*

All the same, the Ranger was still young enough himself not to resist a challenge to a friendly bout--after all, it might prove instructive to the men! Aloud, he drawled in turn, “I hope you are able to support such words with action, Alagion of Mirkwood.”

With a distinctly mocking bow, Alagion replied, “I should be most honored, Strider of the Dunedain, to give both you AND the men of Haloel a demonstration of the elvish way with the sword.”

Aragorn responded with an even more extravagant bow, and the other men exchanged eager glances. Sarovin looked patiently amused as though watching a bragging contest between youngsters (which to him, it was.) As Alagion went for a sword, and Aragorn borrowed a shield, Sarovin murmured to his fellow Ranger, “You’re making a terrible mistake, my friend.”

“Whose side are you on?” Aragorn hissed laughingly.

“Yours, you young upstart, and that is why I would hate to see you flattened before this whole audience,” chuckled Sarovin.

“Elves prefer the bow to the sword, and Alagion is very young by their standards; I can take him!”

(Sigh) “You still have much to learn about elves, young one, and their way with all weapons. You’ll regret your overconfidence.”

Only one man other than Aragorn knew of his true lineage--Sarovin. The old Ranger also knew Aragorn had been raised by elves, so he was not likely to underestimate the younger man’s abilities, given his training by elves. That knowledge cautioned Aragorn, but he had no intention of backing away from Alagion’s challenge.

The men of Haloel backed up to the walls of the courtyard, murmuring eagerly amongst themselves. Aragorn heard some nearby whispering.

“A silver penny on the Ranger!”

“You’re on!”

“The elf will win!”

“You’re mad; he’s half Strider’s size! They’re archers, not swordsmen!”

“Shh, they’re starting!”

Shields in one hand, swords in the other, the two combatants faced each other in the center of the courtyard. At Sarovin’s signal, Aragorn lunged, landing a hard blow on Alagion’s shield. The elf pivoted at the last second, deflecting rather than absorbing the force. At once, he came back with a flurry of quick, sharp strikes that had Aragorn angling his shield every which way to catch them.

Finally managing to dodge a swing entirely, Aragorn came back with all his weight into a blow that knocked Alagion’s shield from his hand. The men shouted in excitement as Aragorn pressed his advantage. It was not as if years of training and sparring with his foster-brothers had not given Aragorn considerable experience with the agility of elves, and yet…Alagion was quite skillful even by Aragorn’s standards. No. More than skillful. Spectacular. And Elladan and Elrohir (not to mention Glorfindel and the other warriors in Imladris) were considered far above average in prowess at arms.

So it came as something of a shock to Aragorn when his young (by elven standards, anyway) opponent not only avoided Aragorn’s blows with sword and shield with little difficulty, but actually continued to press his counterattack. All at once, Alagion rolled neatly under Aragorn’s sword and delivered a precise fist to his arm, causing the Ranger to lose his own shield.

Aragorn scrambled away to regroup, abandoning the shield. To his amazement, the young elf facing him with level concentration seemed barely the worse, while Aragorn felt rattled and defensive. With hardly a pause, Alagion launched in again, and Aragorn found himself frantically parrying strokes that seemed to be coming from all directions--as though the elf had four arms and four swords. Sweat drenched his face and his sword arm rang with the blows.

In a frantic effort to phase the elf, Aragorn swung his fist in a wild punch, that was easily dodged, then a tightly-balled hand landed another direct hit on his sword-arm near the elbow--and the Ranger’s sword dropped neatly from his suddenly-numbed fingers. The elf suddenly materialized behind him, kicked him in the backs of the knees, and Aragorn rolled onto his back to find Alagion’s sword tip resting at his chin.

A great roar went up from the watching soldiers (including a roar of laughter from Sarovin) and Alagion removed his sword and stepped back, smiling faintly. Aragorn was thankful that his exertions had prevented his face from getting any redder. His dark gray eyes sparkling with inner laughter, Alagion gave the vanquished human a hand up. “I trust I have proven my case?”

“All too well,” chuckled Sarovin, joining them. “Enough now,” he said to the assembly in general, “we’re supposed to be fighting Fompran, not each other.”

There was a murmur of agreement, and immediately a press of men crowded around Alagion asking for instructions. The elf’s eyes, still bright with amusement, met Aragorn’s over their heads, and Aragorn grinned sheepishly. But inside, the questions had deepened. *The Eldar as a race have a legendary prowess with all weapons, but no ordinary elf--even from Mirkwood--has skills on the level of Elrohir or Glorfindel.*

Even as he took up a bow and began working with the archers (since the men were now utterly disinterested in learning the sword from him) Aragorn found himself glancing again and again at “Alagion.” And again and again, the question came to his mind.

*Who are you?*

***

Legolas had never imagined that any man would be able to stand against him in single combat (with any weapon) for as long as Strider had. *But then again, I realized at our first meeting that this Strider was no ordinary man.* Glancing at the Ranger (who was doing a surprisingly good job teaching the bowmen) he wondered as he had many times in the past days:

*Who are you?*

He turned his attention back to his students. “You must be quick,” he admonished Yalc and Kartzel as they practiced. “I have seen Lord Fompran’s soldiers; they rely on brute force. You must use speed to your advantage.”

“Aye, and we all saw the advantages,” inserted someone, and Legolas grinned amid the laughter that followed.

“Just so. Yalc, do not swing so wildly--a sword is not a club. Here,” Legolas steadied the farmer’s grip. “Control, gentlemen, always keep your weapon under control.” *Oh, curse the Valar, I sound like Langcyll!* “Move your feet, Yalc!”

A loudly-twanging bowstring and shouts of laughter warned Legolas just in time to dive to the ground to escape yet another stray arrow. Rising, he glared in mock-accusation at Strider and a very embarrassed-looking bowman-in-training. “Nice shot!”

“They seem to be improving!”

The next day…

Just after dawn, a messanger approached the castle bearing a flag of truce. “What could have induced Fompran to parley with us?” Legolas asked Sarovin as they stood on the wall.

“This is not a parley offer,” Sarovin replied. “Fompran delivers terms for surrender every morning. Still,” he smiled and gestured to Legolas, and to Strider in the courtyard below. “Perhaps your arrival has led him to rethink his position.”

The rider, who identified as Vrall, captain of Fompran’s guard, did have terms of surrender. Of sorts. “I am commanded by Lord Fompran, ruler of Haloel, to demand your immediate and unconditional surrender!”

“Let the bastard rant all he will!” shouted Dersten, and similar comments were made by the other rebels.

“You took an oath at manhood! All of you, swearing allegiance to Lord Fompran,” Vrall accused.

“I didn’t,” Sarovin called facetiously. The farmers tittered. “Did you, Strider?”

“Nay, I did not, so I can be accused of no breach of honor,” Strider said. He looked up at the wall, laughter in his eyes, and called, “Did you, Master Elf?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Legolas said blandly. The farmers laughed harder. “Even so, it is a moot point, for I reached manhood long before your Lord Fompran first drew breath.”

Vrall had to wait several seconds before replying, for the guffaws of the men drowned him out. Legolas saw Dersten and Yalc grinning at him, and did not bother suppressing his own smile. Then Vrall went on to the real purpose of his errand:

“Lord Fompran also wishes it to be known that the men here not of our country need not involve themselves in our internal dispute. If the three foreign warriors choose to depart from our borders now, my lord guarantees them safe passage.”

It did not even occur to Legolas to consider accepting the offer--in the extremely remote chance it was made in good faith. He sensed Sarovin looking at him, but kept his eyes on the deposed lord’s captain. But Strider looked up at him and--out of Vrall’s view--broke a small grin at the elf. The Rangers knew Legolas would not forsake these people now any more than they would.

Strider raised his eyebrows at them, and Legolas and Sarovin nodded to permit him to speak for them all. Turning to face Vrall, the human declared, “We three have chosen to take up arms on behalf of the men of Haloel. You may count us among their allies and defenders.”

“By the heavens, do you truly think to die in someone else’s war?” Vrall demanded. “Leave now while you still can, foreigners!”

Dersten stepped forward from where he had been standing, beside Strider. “You have our answer, traitor! Be gone from this place!”

Defeated, and well made fun of, Vrall departed. Legolas and Sarovin found themselves surrounded at once by gleeful rebels, clapping them on the backs and voicing their gratitude. Bashfully, the elf and elder Ranger tried to brush off the praises, seeing Strider fending off similar attentions in the courtyard.

“With such warriors as you guiding us, Fompran and his lackies shall be quaking in their chain mail!” said Kartzel.

“Aye, and they’ll not stand a chance,” said another, Tergian.

Firmly, Legolas brought the enthusiastic voices under control, “And knowing now that we are with you, they shall attack as hard and fast as they can.” That quieted the men, and he went on, “For that very reason, we cannot yield to either idleness or overconfidence. There is much yet to be done. Come, let us continue working with weapons.”

Sarovin had been watching with a thoughtful expression until then, but finally spoke up, “Master Alagion is right. The rest of you, be about your duties.”

Well-motivated by the dawn’s events, the rebels of Haloel went eagerly back to work. Legolas and several of the farmers joined Strider and another group shooting targets on the inner wall of the courtyard. “Raise your elbow, Yalc!” the Ranger was saying in exasperation as Yalc continued his attempts to actually launch an arrow--to no avail. One arrow finally did manage to fly…nearly taking out two guards atop the northwest tower.

“He did it!” someone shouted. “He missed the wall!”

Yalc threw up his hands. “This is hopeless; I shall never manage to bear weapons!”

“Have you tried the sword?” Sarovin asked helpfully.

“Aye, try the sword, Yalc!” yelled Kartzel. “It’s much simpler--the pointy end goes into the other man!”

Ignoring the hecklers, Yalc told Sarovin dismally, “I’m even worse at that!”

Stifling a laugh (for it was true) Legolas took Yalc’s bow and told the humans, “Continue practicing. I will be back in a moment.”

Legolas entered the main part of the castle where the women and children of the farmers were living. He found Dersten’s wife, Niradam, with several of the other women awkwardly trying to make chain mail, and borrowed some things from her. How strange that so few human women bore weapons! The prince’s elder siblings and friends spoke of times when legions of shield maidens fought beside men just as warrioress elves did with their war companies. But now that tradition seemed to be fading among men. Their loss, in Legolas’s opinion.

He returned to the makeshift shooting range and handed Yalc the newly-restrung bow. “Notch the arrow atop the bead on the string, and use it to balance the shaft,” he told the farmer. “There…now aim…good…shoot!”

It was not exactly a bull’s eye, but Yalc’s arrow did strike the target. Not the target he had been aiming for, but the triumphant cry from the soldiers in training heralded a vast improvement nonetheless. “A novice bead,” said Strider, shaking his head. “I should have thought of that.”

“It’s been so long since either of us needed one,” Legolas murmured in an aside to the younger Ranger.

“The most fundamental rule for a master to teach his craft,” Sarovin declared. “Go back to basics.”

*I am no master,” Legolas thought. *There is a difference between skill and mastery; skilled, I am. But mastery requires something more, something deeper, as Langcyll used to say. Something that recent events have proven I am lacking.*

The elven warrior turned his attention back to the men. Strider was returning from inside the castle now, with a handful of small beads, and several of the others rejoined him in restringing some of the bows. Within minutes, there was a noticeable improvement in everyone’s shooting.

“Once you have struck true a few times, do not look for the bead,” Legolas told them. “You know where to rest the shaft now, keep your eyes on the target. Much better, Yalc!”

“Aye, much better!” someone shouted from the wall. “Now all Alagion has to do is produce a novice sword and you’ll be a real soldier!”

Amid the laughter that followed, and Yalc’s embarrassed expression, Strider said sharply, “Pipe down up there! Look to your duties!”

“You are doing fine,” Legolas told Yalc as he demonstrated a better grip.

The young man smiled wryly, “No, they’re right. I’m no soldier. Never wanted to be one; I’m just a farmer.” With an ironic laugh, he added, “And at the moment, wondering what on Middle Earth I’ve got myself into.”

“Raise your elbow,” Legolas said automatically as he watched the farmer aim. Then he asked, “Did you not choose to resist your lord like the others?”

“Oh yes,” Yalc nodded hastily. “We all stayed home that last day. That’s where I was when Tergian came and told us Fompran had taken over the fields and wineries, and that all the laborers were going to occupy the castle. So I grabbed my wife and son and we all ran to the castle. There weren’t many guards there. Once we had the gate shut, it was ours.” He sighed, “We should have realized we were getting in over our heads, but what choice had we? We’re just farmers, however much that lot,” he indicated the wall guard with a grin, “think they’re more. We’re just willing to do whatever we must to protect our homes and our families.”

With that, the farmer let fly another arrow, and struck his target dead center. Grinning broadly as Yalc (along with the others) gaped in open amazement, Legolas clapped the man’s shoulder, and said, “I believe you.”

***

“I knew I had the right idea to send for you,” Sarovin told Aragorn as they watched the practice from atop the wall late that afternoon. “You’ve accomplished more with them in two days than I did nearly in nearly a month.”

“It took a month for either side to realize they’re at war,” Aragorn chuckled. “But we owe many thanks to our elvish friend as well. I would go as far as to credit Alagion with most of their progress at arms.”

Smiling slyly at his friend, Sarovin said, “You never did tell me how you two became traveling companions in the first place.”

The long pause told Sarovin that Aragorn was not entirely comfortable with the memory. But at last, the younger Ranger spoke, “I was heading south along the western edge of Mirkwood after getting your message. I was just inside the trees to escape a storm when I came across him, being attacked by spiders.”

“You saved his life?”

“Yes. If I had known what awaited us here, I would not have asked him to accompany me.”

Raising his eyebrows, Sarovin indicated the elf, now working with swordsmen in the courtyard. “His presence has certainly served the men of Haloel.”

“Yea, but it has not served him well. This is not his fight, Sarovin. These are not his people,” Aragorn was clearly troubled. “I would not want him to meet harm in their war.”

The elder Ranger put a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We both know elves can handle more danger than this. And there are worse reasons to join the forces of another race in war.”

Aragorn smiled without looking at Sarovin. “We both know that alone is not what worries me. If he were an ordinary elf, I would not be so concerned. But what he did this morning…” Sarovin chuckled and Aragorn grinned sheepishly, “You know as well as I that he is no ordinary elf. I suspect Alagion is not his true name.”

This made Sarovin laugh aloud, “And are you disconcerted by another hiding his identity--‘Strider?’”

Aragorn laughed as well, “True, I suppose I can hardly blame him for a deception I myself am guilty of. Yet…” he frowned then, “there are few elves in Middle Earth who can claim such secrets that merit the disguising of one’s name.” He turned to face Sarovin. “That is why I fear putting Alagion in danger. He is of Mirkwood, but also wears the garb of Lothlórien. His bearing of weapons, not to mention himself, practically shouts nobility. His alias only suggests it further.”

“Mm. An interesting character, to be sure. Then again, when are elves ever not interesting?” They both laughed.

“Strider! Sarovin!” Kartzel shouted from the tower.

The two Rangers looked up. *He called to Aragorn first,* Sarovin thought with more amusement than disgruntlement. “What is it?” he shouted.

“The siege camp!”

Sarovin and Aragorn looked out beyond the wall, and spotted a light winking on and off in the early evening dimness. “A signal to the castle,” murmured Aragorn.

“I did tell you I suspected there were spies among us, men still loyal to Fompran,” Sarovin told his friend grimly. “There’s no way to decipher the message; the code could be anything, and we’ve not the time.”

“Nay, our efforts would be better spent hunting them down,” Aragorn mused. Then he smiled in a sly manner that Sarovin knew meant trouble. “A good job for someone with the perceptions of an elf, don’t you think?”

Sarovin laughed. “So much for worrying his safety. Hunting spies is not exactly free of hazards.”

“As you say, elves can take care of themselves,” Aragorn said with mock-cheer. Going to the other side of the battlement, he shouted, “Alagion! A word?” With an answering wave, the elf left the rebels to their practice and darted into the stairwell.

***

“Oy! Essad! Wake up, men!”

“Huh?” “I’m trying to sleep!” “Shaddap!”

“Get UP, you lazy sluggards!” Sulitron dumped a bucket of water on his soldiers’ heads, forcibly rousing them from their wine-induced stupor.

“Whaddaya want?!”

“The Rangers are on the wall and they just called the elf! He’ll be up there with them in a couple of minutes! On your feet; we’ve got a mission to carry out!”

“RIGHT!!!” pumped up with wine and bravado, the spies sprang to their feet (several taking last-minute swigs from their skins and bottles.) “Time to kill us a couple of Rangers!”

“And catch us an elf!”

“Hurry!”

“Let’s go!”

“Remember the plan, men! To your places!”

***

Legolas ran nimbly up the stairs and emerged midway up the tower to find Strider and Sarovin awaiting him on the battlements. “There is trouble?”

“Not yet,” Strider said. “The guards just saw a light signal being sent by the siege camp to the castle.”

Not terribly surprised, Legolas nodded. “It is as you suspected, Sarovin. Spies in our midst.”

Sarovin nodded in turn, “Do you think you could discover where they hide, Alagion?”

Gazing around the great edifice of the castle-fort, Legolas said slowly, “I could seek them, and if I actually drew near them, I would know. But we would need to restrict their movement, and that would take many guards. But assuming it worked, to search the entire castle--”

Zzzzziiiiippp--thunk! An arrow embedded itself in the wall inches from Strider’s head.

“--has just become superfluous,” the elf finished.

“EEEEEYYYAAAAHHH!!!” with an unearthly battle cry, a figure launched itself from the nearest tower window.

Legolas whirled at once, raising his hands to deflect the attacker and send him flying over the wall into the courtyard. The movement from above caught his eye. “Duck!” he shouted at the Rangers, who did so at once as more arrows were loosed.

The men of Haloel had frozen in surprise at the attack, but now they charged the as-yet-concealed assailments in the tower. Legolas drew his knives as more of Fompran’s agents came at him, bearing swords. Two were cut down by the rebels before they could reach him, but another three came armed with bows and began firing off arrows at the farmers and Rangers. Yet not at Legolas--but there was no time for the elf to puzzle over that.

“Alagion! Look out!” Strider shouted just as a beefy body slammed Legolas against the outer side of the battlement, coming dangerously close to knocking him clean off the wall.

With a grunt of surprise, Legolas tried to wrench away, but the man continued to push him, and he realized that was exactly what the spy wanted--to get him over the wall. Jerking one arm free, the elf delivered a swift blow to the spy’s stomach, doubling him over. Shoving himself from the man’s grip, Legolas lunged at another pair menacing Sarovin with swords.

“Get the elf! Kill the Rangers!”

Legolas and Strider both froze in surprise at the spies’ revealing shouts, and in that moment Strider left himself vulnerable to a sword-wielding attacker. The elf hurled one of his knives and embedded in in the attacker’s neck, dropping him where he was. Strider turned to make an expression of thanks to Legolas, and his gray eyes widened, “Beware!”

Legolas had been trying to get a clear throw at another spy, and in the chaos, hadn’t heard the three spies sneaking up on him from behind. A pair of arms wrapped around his neck, jerking his head back as someone landed on his back. Another pair of arms seized his left arm, another his right. The elf shouted in alarm and tried to buck them off, but their combined weight dragged him backwards.

“Alagion!” he heard a voice cry, and an arrow whistled past his face and struck one of the arms wrapped around his neck. The bowman--it was Dersten--rushed forward to try and help, with Yalc a step behind him. “Get off him!”

But the spy had not loosened his grip, and now his agonized jerks, along with the efforts of the other two, bore Legolas backwards until he felt his back slam into the far edge of the wall. Strider and Sarovin saw his danger and rushed to aid him but the spies harrying them broke off and rushed Legolas instead. Try as he might, the elf could not wrench himself free of so many attackes, and four more slammed into him. All at once, he felt his feet leave the ground. With a collective yell, the lord’s agents forced the struggling elf over the wall. The last thing Legolas saw of his comrades was the horrified faces of Yalc, Strider, and Sarovin, looking on helplessly as they reached the edge too late. Then Legolas was falling backward, surrounded by his attackers, until he landed on his back with a force that knocked the air from his lungs.

For a moment, he lay on the ground, gasping, hearing the groans of the men who had been injured by their leap. Then a battle cry from many more unfamiliar voices warned him that the entire siege camp was now alerted to his vulnerability. Desperately, he shoved off the body lying on top of him--it had another of Dersten’s arrows in its back. Legolas staggered to his feet, still dizzy and throbbing all over from the impact of his fall. He snatched up a sword from one of the fallen men, and turned to face the charging soldiers.

“Alagion! Hold on!” he heard Strider cry from above, and he saw a single rope drop down the wall--his one chance of escape.

There looked to be over a hundred soldiers of Lord Fompran’s guard racing to take him, and even a warrior as skilled as Legolas knew better than to try such odds. He seized the rope and began climbing swiftly up, pulling his feet out of reach just as the guards got to the wall. But now a hail of arrows struck the wall all around him, as Legolas cursed and tried to climb faster.

Above him, the bowmen frantically fired their own arrows into the mob of soldiers, trying to buy him time. *Good thing those guards are such poor shots!*

In a spiteful turn of fate, all at once, an arrow zipped along the top of his arm, not impaling it but scoring a painful groove in the flesh. With a gasp of surprised pain, Legolas found himself dangling by one hand, then another arrow landed solidly in the wall directly above his head--slicing right through the rope.

With a startled cry, Legolas fell again, and no sooner had he struck the ground than the guards were upon him. The prince found himself fending off blows from every direction. Seizing one of the men, he snatched a knife and dealt out a considerable number of slashes until the guards decided to take an alternate approach. Forcing his back to the castle wall, the soldiers flanked him with swords, and several of them surged forward bearing what looked like an unpitched tent.

When they attempted to fling it over him, Legolas leapt forward, successfully evading the makeshift net, but also giving the guards a chance to get behind him, surrounding the elf completely. This time their throw succeeded.

It was indeed a tent, made of stiff, thick, and incredibly heavy canvas that immediately bore Legolas to the ground under its weight. It was also lined with wet oilskin, too slippery for the elf to push it away. On top of that, the blows of club and fists were now landing on his body with renewed gusto as the soldiers sensed they had their quarry trapped. Hands pushed on the canvas, pinning his body to the ground, and one landed directly over his face, covering his nose and mouth with the slick, smothering material.

*I must breathe!* Legolas thrashed in a panicked search for air, but the hands still held him down, and his strength was swiftly ebbing. Stars appeared in his vision. A strange leadenness slowed his limbs. All recognition of where he was or what was happening faded as the need for air eclipsed all else. Legolas jerked his head in a frantic attempt to draw breath, to no avail. With a final desperate gasp, feeling and consciousness left him, and the trapped elf went limp in his captors’ hold.

***

Cursing helplessly, Aragorn ordered the rebels to cease fire as Fompran’s soldiers surrounded Alagion, aiming their swords and clubs in blows meant to bring the elf down. The Rangers knew they might be able to shoot some of the attackers, but there were too many for their arrows to make any difference, and in the press, there was the risk of hitting Alagion.

“There must be something we can do!” Yalc cried beside him as the soldiers threw a huge tarp over their friend and began striking the trapped elf mercilessly.

Gritting his teeth, Sarovin muttered, “They sought our deaths, but went to great trouble to take him alive. They’ll not kill him now.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Aragorn demanded, turning angrily to his friend.

Sarovin seized his arm, squeezing it hard. “Peace, Aragorn,” he said in a near-hiss, lest the others hear. “It may be exactly that they hope to drive us forth from the castle in a rushed and ill-planned attempt to retrieve Alagion! Or perhaps they merely desire him as a hostage, but either way, it is to their advantage to keep him alive. Time is on our side.”

“Ours, yes, but not his,” Aragorn snapped, bile rising in his throat. He watched, enraged at his own helplessness, as the guards beat the struggling form beneath the canvas and pinned him to the ground. He began cursing again as the thrashing motion slowly ceased.

“Get off, you fools! You’ll smother him!” he heard a soldier yell, and the rest quickly moved back. The figure beneath the tent remained still. A ranking guard--it was Vrall--threw the tent off. The soldiers leapt backward, apparently still intimidated by the sight of the elf, even unconscious. Vrall gaped. “The elf! We told you to capture the Rangers!”

“No, you didn’t!” protested one of the spies. “You said to kill the Rangers!”

“We said to kill the elf, you wine-addled moron!” In his outrage, Vrall evidently forgot that the rebels on the wall could hear him. Aragorn motioned the others silent, hoping Fompran’s men might inadvertently reveal more of their intentions. “It was the Rangers we wanted!”

Aragorn exchanged a quick glance with Sarovin. *So it was us they wanted. But why? And what will they do now with Alagion?*

Vrall seemed to be pondering that same question. “Well, I guess we’re stuck with the elf now. Nasemar, Modin, carry him to one of the tents and put him under guard. Bind him tight before he wakes!”

One of the appointed soldiers recoiled, “I’m not touching an elf!” The other man expressed a similar aversion--*Do they think elves are poisonous?* wondered Aragorn--but under threats from Vrall, they at last picked up each end of the tarp and used it to bear Alagion away.

Aragorn watched, his insides churning with anxiety and rage. He seriously doubted that Alagion would be treated with honor as Fompran’s prisoner. He recalled the elf’s knife, striking the spy who had aimed a sword for Aragorn’s throat. *Your debt to me is paid, Master Elf. I shall not abandon you to their mercies. We shall get you out of there.*

Turning to Yalc and Dersten, the Ranger announced, “Get the men back to their duties. Especially the weapons practice. We have work to do.”

Dersten went at once, but Yalc hesitated. “What about Alagion?”

In a hard voice, Aragorn said, “Be assured, my friend, he will not remain in Fompran’s hands long. We will get him back.”

***

Lord Fompran had flung three goblets of wine at Vrall when his captain came to report. “You imbecile! I ordered the elf dead and the Rangers taken; now you tell me that we have the elf prisoner and both the Rangers still ALIVE?!?!”

Wine dripping from his face, his body stained from his hair to his feet, Vrall stood stoically in the face of his lord’s rage. “It seems there was a problem with the message, my lord. The spies were under the impression it was the elf you wanted.”

“Bah!” Fompran wished he had another goblet to throw, but the servants had not returned yet from washing the other three. *Curse this siege, confining me to only three goblets at one time. I’m withering from this deprivation!*

He leaned back, his velvet lined chair groaning under his weight, and scowled at Vrall. “Well, he’s here it seems, now what do we do with him?”

Pausing in thought, Vrall said, “Nerum reports that the elf was helping train the rebels and fortify the castle. He’ll know what they’re plotting.”

Fompran blinked. “Sulitron was in charge of the spies; what happened to him?”

“The elf killed him. Or one of them did.”

“Hmm. Maybe my spies’ and your incompetence won’t be a total disaster after all. Come! Let’s pay our guest a visit!”

The elf was still unconscious when Fompran came into the guarded tent. His men were taking no chances, and had bound the immortal, hand and foot. Even trussed up so, something about this creature greatly intimidated the lord of Haloel. Fompran had never seen an elf before, but knew their reputation: beautiful and deadly. Judging by the number of Fompran’s men who had died at the elf’s hand, the latter part was no exaggeration. And despite the scrapes, bruises, and dirt marring his fair skin, the elf had an otherworldly beauty. Definitely a creature to be wary of. Folding his arms pompously, Fompran ordered, “Wake him up.”

Vrall briskly stepped forward and slapped the elf sharply across the face. Without a sound, the elf opened dark gray eyes that seemed to possess their own inner starlight.

Fompran jerked backward, speechless in fright. Those piercing black eyes never left his as the elf--despite his bonds, pulled himself gracefully into a sitting position. Fompran had always considered himself a noble and commanding lord of men, but this creature’s bearing was more regal than anyone he had ever beheld.

The elf did not speak. “I…you…” Fompran flustered, backing toward the tent’s opening, “Q-question him, Vrall! D-don’t be gentle!” Then he fled, calling loudly for wine.

***

Legolas silently let out the breath he’d been holding. The overpowering odor of wine had roused him even before the men entered the tent, but he had not moved in the hope of overhearing something. All he had gotten for his efforts was a slap--and near asphyxiation from the fumes.

As the grotesquely fat man waddled hurriedly from the tent, Vrall took his place standing before the elf prince with his chest thrust out pompously. *Does he actually think I will be cowed by such posturing?* Legolas thought incredulously.

“Who are you, elf?” growled the man in a distinctly unintimidating fashion.

Legolas toyed with what to say and saw two other guards peering through the door with undisguised awe. None of these men had ever seen an elf, that much was obvious, but their legends appeared to have exaggerated elvish abilities to ridiculous proportions. With that in mind, a rather absurd idea popped into Legolas’s head, and despite his predicament, he felt a prickle of amusement. A ridiculous notion, and yet…it just might work to his advantage. Deepening his voice, the youngest prince of Mirkwood answered, “I am Celeborn, Lord of Lothlórien.” With any luck, the legends of the elves of Lothlórien, and Celeborn, would have quite an effect on these ignorant humans.

It worked. Very well. Vrall literally flung himself backward a full five feet, nearly out of the tent’s entrance. Then he had to chase down the fleeing guards, his shouted curses forcing Legolas to bite his lip to hold back his laughter. But he also winced inwardly--in that tone, he had sounded just like King Thranduil. *Dear Father, not only do I owe a life debt to a mortal Ranger, but I’ve wound up helping a band of farmers rebel against their lord, and now I’ve gotten myself captured by a mob of drunken soldiers. Aren’t you proud of me?* The absurdity of the whole situation soon got the better of him, and he quietly began to laugh.

He hastily forced himself to stop as Vrall returned, looking petrified, but determined to overcome. The guard was also bearing a sword, and pointing it imperiously at Legolas, he said shakily, “Just…just…don’t make any sudden movements, Celeborn! We’ve heard of you, and your sorcerer’s ways!”

Attempting to look mysterious, Legolas said, “Do you think my thoughts shall be betrayed by movement?”

He heard one of the guards whisper, “Those Lórien elves can take over a man’s mind just by looking at him!” and again felt a desperate desire to snicker. But this façade could only be maintained if he kept a straight face.

“Why are you helping those rebels?” Vrall demanded, still waggling his sword at Legolas.

*Deep voice, sound powerful…do NOT laugh!* “Your lord has shown himself a tyrant and unfit. My skills and my powers…” Vrall flinched, “are for their aid.”

“What…what kind of powers?”

*Stare at him…look dangerous…* In his over dramatized voice, Legolas intoned, “I possess powers beyond your comprehension, mortal! You only live now because I choose to let you live. For the moment, I only offer the farmers guidance with weapons, but anger me further…” he paused threateningly, “and all the magic of the elves shall be raised against you!” *Should I laugh evilly? Nay, that sounds too contrived. I‘m supposed to be Celeborn, not Sauron…though I would wager this fool would not know the difference.*

Vrall was backing up rapidly. “I…I…shall report this to my lord!” Then he bolted.

Legolas jammed his teeth into his lip again, laughing silently, and shifted position. Then he nearly laughed aloud--those guards had done a most ineffective job binding his wrists. With a little wriggling and work, he could probably free his hands. Then the question arose--what to do once he did? *I’ve already got these men terrified of me. But if I race out of here as though fleeing them, their instincts will take over and they will simply shoot me. Nay, securing my release requires a little more finesse.*

The elf sat still and listened; the camp was abuzz with the rumors that a powerful elf sorcerer was aiding the rebels of Haloel. Already, the rumor had taken root, and was starting to grow leaves and branches of its own. “He could kill us all with a thought!” someone was saying to a group of guards off duty.

“Crikey! Why the devil are we still alive? What’s ‘e waiting for?”

“Watching us, I’ll reckon! Spying for the rebels!”

“Then why don’t they just kill ‘im?”

“Can’t kill a Lórien king, you dung-brained son of a goblin!”

“Aye, do you WANT a war with the elves?! Imagine him multiplied by ten thousand! Argh, give me a snort of that wine, Nasemar!”

*Are there ten thousand elves in Lórien?* Legolas wondered, grinning to himself.

“What’re they planning to do with him then? The longer we keep him prisoner, the more trouble we’re in. Pass me that skin!”

“Aye, when he’s done spying and wants out of here, he’ll kill as many of us as he has to to get out of here!”

“Oh, oliphaunt turds! If he’s the king, then that sorceress queen of theirs is his wife! What’s her name?” (Gulp!)

(Swig!) “Dunno, and I wouldn’t dare speak it aloud--she’d probably hear me!”

*Well, in that at least, you would probably be right,* thought Legolas. *There is very little occurring in Middle Earth that Galadriel is unaware of.*

***

On the other side of the Misty Mountains, Lord Celeborn was passing the garden where Lady Galadriel kept her mirror when he heard a sound that made him stop in surprise. Laughter. Startled, the Lord of Lothlórien waited at the top of the steps until Galadriel came up, a smile of amusement on her fair face. When she saw him, she blinked-- and then began laughing again. “What?” he asked in astonishment.

“Nothing, dearest, nothing,” covering her mouth with her hand, she passed by him and walked on, her shoulders still shaking with mirth.

Celeborn shook his head to himself. *I wonder if I shall ever understand her…*

***

Back in the Haloel siege camp, Legolas was shaking with silent laughter as he listened to the terrified soldiers’ conversations, “If half what they say about that elf witch is true, we definitely don’t need to be getting on her bad side!”

“By Sauron’s teeth! What if she comes after him! We’re done for! I need a drink!”

Legolas blinked and thought, *Does Sauron HAVE teeth?!*

“We should get the hell out of here while we still can! We can’t win this fight with that pointy-eared, posturing, pandering…” Legolas waited to see if the man would come up with another suitable adjective, “PERSON!”

“‘E’s not a person, ‘e’s an elf, you stupid troll-spawn!”

“Maybe…maybe we should let ‘im go. Maybe then ‘e wouldn’t kill us, or ‘e wouldn’t send his wife after us.”

*Now we’re getting somewhere!*

“Are you addled?! Fompran would have our ears!”

“Ruddy better than that elf having our arses! I’d rather get flogged by Vrall than have my guts sizzled by that creature! Modin’s right; we should let him go before it’s too late!”

“Aye, it ain’t worth it! We’re all lost anyway; the rebels still have those cursed Rangers in cahoots with ’em! Let’s give ’em back the elf and get our arses out of here! Only a fool doesn’t know when to give up, and we ain’t heroes!”

*That much is certain. Perhaps now is the time.* Legolas fought back another smile and began pulling at the rope binding his wrists. In a few moments, his hands were free. *This really is far too easy.* He untied his ankles, then rose and walked to the tent door, listening again.

“Well…well…Nasemar, you go and tell the elf that we’ll let him go if he promises not to hurt us!”

“ME?!?! Are you orc-bit?! You go, Modin!”

“I’m not the one to go; I don’t want that elf knowing my face! Tegas, you go!”

“No way!”

“Yes, you, Tegas, you’re the one who bungled up that message in the first place!”

“No!”

“Well, one of us has to!”

*Now!* Schooling his features into a suitably menacing expression, Legolas stood as tall as he could and dramatically flung open the tent flap, loudly enough so the men heard it.

“Balls of a Balrog!” The entire group leapt to their feet in horror as Legolas stood there, glowering at each of them in turn--and knowing all the while that a single giggle would give the whole charade away. He walked forward slowly, advancing on the petrified soldiers like a harbinger of doom, praying he would not start laughing. One of the soldiers pointed a sword at him, his hands shaking so that the tip waggled hilariously. “Just…just…stay back, Elf-King!”

*I believe if I shouted and jumped at them they would all flee, squealing like frightened grouse!* Legolas took a deep breath and said in a deep voice (that sounded absurd to him,) “I know you do not wish to remain in this place, men of Haloel. You are wise, to know the consequences of trying to detain me here.”

“W-what do you want?” one of the men stammered.

Allowing a faint smile of benevolence that relieved some of his need to snicker, the young warrior intoned, “Release me, and ye shall not come to harm, provided you leave this place and cease troubling these people. Try to confine me, and ye shall face the awesome might of the elves of Lothlórien!”

He had not raised his hands, but the soldiers recoiled. The nearest, Nasemar, began nodding vigorously. “We’ll…we’ll let you go, Lord Elf! Just…don’t hurt us! We’ll make a distraction so you can get back to the castle!”

“You have chosen…wisely.”

***

Aragorn wanted to fling his sword at Sarovin in his frustration. “We cannot just leave him there! Elbereth only knows what they’re doing to him!”

“THINK, Aragorn!” Sarovin hissed, grabbing his shoulders. “If we launch an attack now, the men have their passions inflamed, but they won’t take proper care! Even if we do get Alagion back, we’ll have wasted men and arrows and time! They’ve taken him alive, and he’s still alive! Be patient!”

“I cannot simply stand by while they torment him, Sarovin! If necessary, I’ll go alone! But I forced him here under a life debt, and this was not a fight he should ever have joined. Now he has saved my life! For that and my folly, I owe him enough to go after him!”

In a tone of exaggerated patience that annoyed Aragorn greatly (for it reminded him of Elrond), Sarovin said, “Elves can survive and recover completely from far worse than anything those wine-sotted mercenaries can give. Alagion is more than strong enough to endure the few days it will take us to be far more prepared for battle than we are now.” He squeezed the younger Ranger’s shoulders again. “You must not act on impulse or passion, Aragorn, it will be the death of you! Your elf family and your encounter with Alagion this morning ought to have showed you that much!”

“Strider! Sarovin! Look!” shouted Tergian in excitement, pointing out to the camp.

The two Rangers ran to the other side of the wall and peered out. It took no great search to find what the crisis was: one of the tents was on fire at the far side of the camp. Soldiers were racing to put out the blaze, which was burning quite hot. The tent probably had some of their wine supply in it--which would explain the near-panic the soldiers were in. But something else bright in the camp, on the other side close to the castle, caught Aragorn’s eye. “There!”

A figure, far more graceful than the bumbling soldiers, burst from behind one of the tents and raced toward the castle. “It’s Alagion!” Yalc shouted exultantly from beside the Rangers. “Get a rope!”

Very few of the soldiers even saw the fleet figure running in the moonlight toward the castle. And to Aragorn’s astonishment, those who did notice him simply kept on raising a cry over the fire and distracting anyone from looking at the elf. Alagion gained the rope and climbed swiftly up. Not a single arrow was launched to stop him. By the time the triumphant roar from the men alerted the camp to their prisoner’s escape, the elf was safely over the wall, landing neatly on his feet in front of Aragorn and Sarovin.

For a moment, the two Rangers could only stare. He was scuffed and a little dirty, but otherwise none the worse for wear. At last, Sarovin spoke, “Well, Master Elf, how did you manage to contrive such a clean escape.”

The elf gazed from one man to the other, a rather peculiar expression on his face--and then began to laugh. Confused but relieved, Aragorn and Sarovin laughed also, until Aragorn managed to say, “Peace, I demand to know what happened down there!”

“You had better tell him, Alagion of Mirkwood. Strider here was about to blow the entire siege just to come after you!” Sarovin said dryly.

His eyes turning serious, Alagion said, “That would have been foolish. I was not treated badly, and even if I had been, an immediate rescue attempt would have been dangerous for everyone.”

“As I tried to tell him, Master Alagion, but our Strider is a man of strong emotions and too much honor. He seemed to believe himself in your debt.”

Aragorn shot Sarovin a warning glare, but said, “You did save my life at great risk to yourself on the wall.”

“As you saved mine when we first met,” Alagion said. For the first time, Aragorn detected genuine gratitude--and more, respect--from his mysterious companion. It was a pleasant feeling to hear it. “You are not in my debt, Strider, but if you would count our actions, then at most we are even. You owe me nothing.”

“In that case, I shall soon flay you alive if you do not tell me how you managed to get out of there!” Aragorn threatened.

Trying with limited success to contain his mirth, the elf replied, “You would not believe me.”

“Nay, I think I would; at least ten of them saw you running and not one so much as loosed an arrow! Come, Master Alagion, do not hold us in suspense! What did you do?” demanded Sarovin.

Looking almost embarrassed, the elf replied, “I told them I was Celeborn.”

Aragorn gaped. Sarovin blinked. Alagion grinned sheepishly. Then all three of them exploded again, Aragorn almost completely doubled over. The rebels exchanged rather tense glances, and Yalc said hesitantly, “Celeborn? The lord of Lothlórien? The really…powerful one?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” gasped Aragorn, wiping tears from his eyes.

“You’re…you’re not REALLY…him…are you?” Kartzel asked nervously.

Those questions and the tense way the men were looking at the elf set him and the Rangers off again, and it was several moments before they could speak. Shaking his head and trying to find speech, the elf at last managed to say, “Nay, my friends, be assured, I am not Lord Celeborn. I am far too young.”

“Never heard of a young elf,” someone muttered.

“We have to be born sometime,” Alagion replied dismissively. “But nay, I can tell you truthfully I am not Celeborn, nor am I even of Lórien.”

“He does speak the truth, friends,” Aragorn added. “I have seen Celeborn of Lórien.”

Sarovin was looking down into the siege camp, “We’d best be about our business, friends. Lord Fompran’s men have just realized their prisoner is gone.”

Laughing with the rest, Aragorn and “Alagion” headed into the tower stairs. As they walked down, the elf suddenly put a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, making him pause. When the men turned and met his eyes, the elf said with a faint smile, “I am Legolas, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood.”

The Ranger smiled in turn; such lineage explained many things. Clasping the elf’s hand as though meeting him for the first time, he said, “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

“Well met, son of Arathorn.”

“Well met indeed.”

*****

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE

Alagion: Legolas’s alias  
Sarovin: Older Ranger, friend of Aragorn’s who’s helping the rebels  
Strider: DUH!!!  
Yalc, Dersten, Kartzel, Tergian: assorted peasant farmers who are now rebels against the lord of Haloel  
Niradam: Dersten’s wife  
Fompran: now-deposed Lord of Haloel  
Vrall: Fompran’s guard captain  
Tegas: Fompran’s messenger  
Sulitron, Essad, Nerum, Telsun: some (but not all) of Lord Fompran’s spies inside the castle  
Modin, Nasemar: some of Fompran’s other soldiers  



	21. Each Night I Dream Of Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

Several days later…

Among the off-duty rebels taking a rare opportunity to actually rest at night, Yalc and Dersten were both suffering from anxiety-induced insomnia. Had it not been so, they likely would never have seen what transpired among the sleeping men crowded into the castle’s great hall. Between the influx of rebel farmers and their families, conditions in the castle were actually rather cramped, and the constantly-changing shifts of duty and comings and goings of all had resulted in the soldiers sleeping apart from the women and children in various parts of the castle. Most of the men were weary enough when they came off duty to go right to sleep, but Yalc and Dersten found that they could not, and so whispered quietly of defense plans and weapons-knowledge as their comrades dreamt.

Around midnight, Alagion and Strider came inside after their watches. Strider went right to sleep, and at first the farmers thought Alagion too was finding it difficult to rest, for he seemed to be staring at the ceiling. Then Dersten remembered that elves all slept that way: with their eyes open. Or at least that was what people said.

Fascinated, Yalc and Dersten had stared at the slumbering warriors across the hall, until they noticed Alagion’s peaceful face growing steadily more tense, and then a barely-perceptible moan reached their ears. They had exchanged looks, wondering what to do, but Strider had roused then. Frowning with concern, the Ranger took note of the elf’s increasingly-fitful sleep, and he reached over and gently shook Alagion’s shoulder. Getting only another moan in response, Strider shook him harder and whispered, “Legolas!”

As Yalc and Dersten looked at each other in confusion, the elf blinked and seemed to come back to his senses. Looking at Strider, he smiled wryly and sat up, rubbing his brow. “Forgive me, I did not mean to disturb your sleep.”

The two farmers remained as still as they could, and in the echoing silence of the hall, they heard the quiet words clearly. “You’re the first elf I ever knew to have nightmares, son of Thranduil.”

“It is just this castle; I dislike sleeping beneath stone. The stars would give me peace.”

A rather exaggerated sigh reached their ears. “I thought you had set aside pretense when you favored me with your true name, Master Elf.”

“I did!” came the elf’s rather indignant reply.

“Yet you forget that I saw your dreams troubled at least twice on the plains--both times on clear nights, so do not blame the clouds.”

There was a long pause, then a faint chuckle. “You have the advantage of me, Aragorn.”

“Of course.” A more taunting chuckle.

“But it is out of no mistrust of you, merely that I…do not wish to speak of my dreams. To anyone.”

“Fair enough. But I still admit to being curious at what a prince of Mirkwood was doing alone so far south when we met.”

“It is a long story.”

“We’ve plenty of time.”

(Shove) “Go to sleep, son of Arathorn. We do not need you keeling over while on duty.”

“May I remind you that it was you who did the keeling over two minutes after we met--”

“--Only if I may remind you who is the better swordsman!”

“And who managed to get himself captured last week?”

“I could easily have taken care of myself if I had been able to trust you to do the same. But I was forced to guard your flesh as well as my own! And I did not need your help getting back OUT of the camp!”

“No indeed, ‘Lord Celeborn.’ Perhaps if I get captured I will just pretend to be Sauron.”

“They would believe you.” (Snicker!) “How many have deserted Fompran since then?”

(Chuckle!) “Nearly two dozen, and there would have been more if Vrall hadn’t increased the perimeter guards around the camp. You played that role well, it seems. Have you met Lord Celeborn?”

“I have. My sister is wedded to Orthelian of Lórien.”

“That would be Limloeth of Mirkwood, I presume?”

Yalc and Dersten feigned sleep as the elf’s head turned in their direction, but both could see the distant look in his bright eyes. Having been separated almost constantly from his wife and son for nearly two weeks, Yalc in particular recognized it: longing. *I suppose an elf would naturally be lonely here among so many strangers. I wonder if he has left a family in Mirkwood.*

“Yes, but she chose to dwell in Lórien with her husband’s people.” Even a naïve farmer like Yalc caught the way the elf--was he really a PRINCE?!--changed the subject. “You once told me you were a friend of Lord Elrond.”

Strider--or rather, Aragorn--had also noticed, but chose not to comment on the elf’s evasiveness. But what he said shocked the two eavesdroppers yet again. “You may have heard of me before now. But I would have been called Estel.”

“Lord Elrond’s foster-son?!” Alagion--that is, Legolas--sounded equally startled. Then he chuckled wryly. “I do not know why I am surprised--recalling now your skill with weapons. Training by Elrohir and Elladan would explain it well. Or were you taught by Glorfindel?”

“A combination of the three, actually. Or rather, the two. Elladan and Elrohir come as a pair in all things, as I’m sure you know.”

“Indeed!” Legolas laughed. “They taught me a few of their tricks when they rode with one of Mirkwood’s war parties some years ago.”

Now it was Aragorn’s turn to laugh. “That would explain how you evaded me during our bout last week. Even for a Mirkwood warrior, such prowess was exceptional. I knew then you were no ordinary elf.”

“As I knew you were no ordinary Ranger.”

They both chuckled. “We’ve many tales to exchange, my friend.”

“And I shall enjoy it, but the hour grows late. We’d best get some sleep while we can.”

“You think Fompran will strike soon?”

“Very soon; he and his Vrall are as unimaginative as orcs, and twice as predictable. They will charge the gate as soon as that battering ram is completed.”

“And it will be done within two days. You’re right; we had better take some rest.”

“Good night, Aragorn.”

“Good night, Legolas.”

Yalc and Dersten raised their eyebrows at each other from where they lay, but there was no point in talking now. Both the elf and the Ranger would easily hear them. So despite how interesting--and revealing--the conversation had been, discussing it would have to wait. On that thought, the two eavesdropping farmers decided to follow the advice they had overheard--and get some sleep.

***

The next day…

Vrall wished he could grab the sides of his head. “It’s suicide, my lord!” he exclaimed frantically. Then he had to duck to escape a thrown goblet.

“I’ve made up my mind, Captain!” Lord Fompran snapped. “We attack as soon as the battering ram is ready!”

Close to howling in frustration, Vrall said urgently, “My lord, that is EXACTLY what the rebels except us to do! They’ll be waiting and prepared for it, and they’ll take us all!”

“Bah!” Fompran waved his hand irritably. “I’m tired of wasting away in this camp. Those rebels are peasants, not soldiers. With the exception of those three foreign rabble-rousers there’s not a warrior among them. Just get us through the gates, and they’ll surrender.”

“Sir, I cannot guarantee half of the men won’t desert when we give the order to charge!”

Jerking his fat hands up an down, Fompran said, “Well…well…flog them all the way, if you have to! I’m the rightful Lord of Haloel, and I intend to be sleeping in the comfort of my own bedroom tomorrow night!”

Vrall sighed helplessly. “Very well, my lord. I’ll prepare the men to charge the gates tomorrow at dawn.”

“Thank you; don’t forget who’s the lord around here. Hmmm,” Fompran cocked his head thoughtfully. “The men need a little motivation, do they? Break open a few crates of wine before the charge. Be generous, Vrall. Nothing like a little Haloel grape juice in the blood to raise one’s spirits and courage!”

Feeling a sense of utter dread for the morrow, Vrall said dubiously, “You wish the men to be drunk when they attack, my lord? Is that wise?”

“I’m the lord of Haloel, Vrall, nothing I do is unwise! And even if it is, it’s not your place to say so.”

“No, my lord.” *But I will when the Rangers and the elf have us both in irons!*

Fompran was thinking again (always a dangerous thing.) “Yes, I think a little wine will go a long way toward endowing our fighting men with strength. And more,” *Oh curses, what now?* “I shall ride with you!”

For a moment, Vrall could only gape. “What?!”

“Well, with their lord riding with them into battle, the spirits of the men will be greatly raised, don’t you think?”

*As a matter of fact, I don’t,* Vrall thought, wincing at the idea. “Er, my lord, I do not think we have a horse…strong enough for a rider as…imposing as yourself.”

“Ah, but we do. Fate has sent him to me, and then I knew I was meant to ride with my men tomorrow!” Fompran said fervently. He rose and beckoned to Vrall, “Come, I will show you.” The deposed lord led Vrall to a tent converted to a stable, and the captain could hear angry whinnies and shrieks coming from inside. One of the guards opened the tent flap, and Vrall beheld two horses, hobbled tightly to wooden stakes, kicking and snapping at the men trying to make them accept saddle and bridle. “What do you think?” asked Fompran proudly.

Vrall raised his eyebrows, feeling still more doubtful. The horses were impressive, no doubt of that. One, a tall and sturdy black stallion, bared his teeth and snapped at any man who ventured near, but the other, a smaller but hauntingly beautiful gray, was bucking and thrashing against the imprisoning ropes in an endless attempt to free himself. “They’re quite magnificent, my lord, but…they seem less than broken-in. I wonder if they would be reliable to ride into battle.”

Fompran waved a hand dismissively, “Do not worry about it, Vrall, I’m an expert horsemen, and the guards have promised they will be ready for us tomorrow. I shall take the black--he’ll look marvelous with my red tunic, won’t he? And you shall ride beside me on the gray. Think what a sight we shall be; our men will be truly inspired!”

The captain thought for certain that he was going to be ill. But he replied weakly, “Indeed, my lord; our victory is all but certain!” *Only if the sight of you on that horse causes the rebels to die of laughter!*

***

That night, in Mirkwood…

For Thranduil of Mirkwood, the dream began as the same one that had periodically visited him for over a thousand years. After the deaths of his son Tavron, and his twin daughters, Meren and Lalaith, Thranduil had managed to submerge his own anguish to care for his grief-stricken wife and remaining children. But at night, the dream had come, a horrific tidal wave of sorrow that could no longer be repressed. When Minuial had still been alive, she had been able to sense when the nightmare came upon her husband, and roused him, but since her death…alone at night, the dream plagued him. Always the same: a merciless, second-by-bitter-second memory of the day the news had reached Mirkwood. Always horrific, always the same.

Until tonight.

It was early evening, the setting sun had shone red upon the white walls of the outer palace, the summer breeze blowing lazily through the open window of Thranduil’s study. He had heard a rider coming through the gates, approaching fast.

He rose, sensing that it was an urgent message, and started out to the outside steps. Never imagining that it could be anything terribly dreadful, he had not run. Perhaps if he had, he would have gotten the fateful news before his wife and daughter.

But he had not run. And so it happened that he was coming out into the foyer when he heard it, a sound that was permanently seared into his conscious and unconscious mind. Limloeth had been in the courtyard when the messenger arrived, and she had taken the message scroll and opened it. Just as Thranduil had been approaching the palace door, he had heard his daughter scream.

Sometimes he was aware that it was a dream, but was still powerless to keep himself from reenacting that day. This night was one of those, and his mind fought to break free even as his dream-self rushed the last few steps out the door.

The elven queen was ahead of him, dashing frantically to where Limloeth was on her knees in the grass, her eyes fixed on the scroll’s dreadful words, and practically screaming out sobs to the heavens. Instinct to shield his wife had taken over then, though in the back of Thranduil’s mind, he had realized his daughter’s cries could mean only one thing. “Minuial! Wait!” he had shouted as she grabbed the message from Limloeth. But she did not wait.

The Queen of Mirkwood had made no sound. Oh, how Thranduil wished he could stop this nightmare, but it carried him on in its cruel current, like a fast-flowing river he could not swim free of. Minuial had raised her pale, blue-gray eyes from the scroll to meet her husband’s and the parchment had slid from her nerveless fingers. The wind caught it and blew it a few feet away, but Thranduil could only see his wife--and how the beautiful sparkle in her bright eyes had utterly vanished. He had run with all his mind and caught her as she sagged, her body going limp in his grasp. All the while, his mind had wailed the inevitable cause: *It is a message of death! One of my children is dead!*

But his immediate terror was for Minuial. She could not breathe; over Limloeth’s sobs he could hear her weak gasps. “No!” he propped her up desperately as her lips took on a blue tinge. “Breathe, Minuial! Stay, my love, you must stay! Breathe! A Elbereth! Do not let go!”

He had shaken her so hard it was a wonder he didn’t break her neck. But somehow, the shock abated enough for her to take a gasping breath. Then she had collapsed in his arm, not weeping, merely gasping his name, over and over, as though he could somehow change what had happened. “Thranduil…Thranduil…”

His gaze went past her to the fateful scroll, lying on the grass with its message revealed to all Mirkwood. Other elves, drawn to the scene, saw it, and soon the cries of grief crescendoed through the forest.

*I looked over at the scroll,* the dreamer remembered bitterly. *I didn’t have to read the condolences from Imladris to know what it was about. I only saw the names. I was bracing myself for one. But there were three. Tavron. Meren. Lalaith. Dead. My children. Three of them slain all at once. Then Berensul and Belhador came running and they too fell to the ground with grief. All around me, my family and my people wept, and I knew I should be doing something…but I could not move. I could not think. All that I could hear was the sobbing, and all I could see were those three names…*

“Why?!” Minuial cried, raising her face to look at Thranduil--as though blaming him.

*What? Wait!* the dreamer thought. *This is not right. It did not happen thus. Minuial did not speak. None of us could speak!*

But something more was different. The dream had changed. She was older. It was true; she had aged a great deal visibly after the children’s deaths, but that had happened over time. The light had not returned to her eyes until the birth of their seventh and last child. So how could she look thus only minutes after news of the tragedy had reached them? This was not right! And Belhador, he had not yet come of age when his elder siblings perished. Yet he looked grown here--as he had just before crossing the sea. What was happening?!

“How could you let this happen again?!” Limloeth sobbed, adding her accusing eyes to the faces suddenly focused on Thranduil.

“What do you mean?” Thranduil cried, recoiling. “It is not my fault; I could not have prevented your brother’s and sisters’ deaths! Why do you blame me?”

“Nay!” cried his wife, a look in her eyes that Thranduil had never seen when she had lived. She had never blamed him. So why did she in this dream? She cried out again, “But THIS death you could have stopped!”

“What?!” In disbelief, Thranduil looked over at the scroll, still lying mockingly upon the grass. But it too was different. In the most horrible way imaginable, the dream had changed. It did not seem possible. Could this be real?

Instead of three names, there was only one.

*It cannot be. It cannot be! IT CANNOT BE!!!*

“NO!!!” Thranduil leapt to his feet and cried out, in shock and horror, the name that his disbelieving eyes saw on the parchment: “LEGOLAS!!!”

Then he jerked upright in his bed, heart pounding, drenched in sweat, his throat still burning from the cry. For a moment, he could sit, trembling, staring around his chamber’s familiar sights in an effort to rid himself of the last hideous vestiges of the dream. After several minutes, with a deep, shuddering sigh, he rose and went to his study. He might as well get some work done. It would be useless trying to sleep again after that.

But even as he tried to distract his mind with practical matters, the questions bombarded him. Why had the dream changed? What did it mean? Could such a thing…truly come to pass? And if it did…would he be to blame? Thranduil closed his eyes and leaned his head against his balled fists, fear and pain making him tremble inside. “Legolas…”

***

At the same time (a few hours before dawn)…

Legolas stood upon the castle wall, hoping the rather chilly night wind blowing down from he mountains might clear his troubled mind. He had been dreaming again. The previous night, Aragorn had remarked that Legolas was the first elf he had ever seen suffering nightmares. *I am not surprised--for I am the first elf that I have ever known to have nightmares!*

It was not as if the elf had never had an unpleasant dream--after his mother’s death, he had dreamt of her every night for years. Those dreams had turned especially ill when Thranduil had finally told Legolas the truth of how his mother had died.

But this was the first time his nightmares had been noticed by others. He had been acutely embarrassed when Aragorn had roused him that first time on the plains, but the man had no way of knowing what it was his friend dreamt of, so Legolas did not dwell on it. But still the dreams came, unrelenting. His dreams were memories, always involving his father, sometimes good times, sometimes bad, and both mocking him in their own right. He had done his best to free himself from their hold, but tonight they had plagued him to the point where he no longer bothered to try and continue sleeping. Better to be awake than to face those nightmares over and over.

The young elf smiled bitterly to himself. *Running away again…*

Nearly all the rebels were up and about, readying themselves for the attack everyone knew was coming at dawn. The activity in the camp confirmed it: Legolas could see the soldiers moving about and honing their weapons in torchlight. The former ruler of Haloel and his army truly were predictable to the point of being pathetic.

They were shifting around that battering ram now, in plain view of the rebel watchers on the wall. Movement from one of the towers caught the elf’s eye, and he turned to see Dersten and Tergian pointing and laughing at the soldiers’ lack of originality.

“I wish I knew what they find so amusing.”

Legolas jumped; he had not heard Yalc coming out of the tower stairs. Unlike most of the other rebels, Yalc was tense. “I think they find Lord Fompran’s ineptitude rather comical. His men are astonishingly poor soldiers.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that there’s going to be a battle at dawn. No matter how many we take out with arrows, they’ll get through the gates with that thing.” The farmer indicated the battering ram, his brown eyes grave. “Many of us will suffer wounds. Some of us are going to die.”

“The risk of death is inevitable,” Legolas told Yalc. “It is the way of all warriors.”

The farmer laughed wryly, shaking his head, “Whoever said we were warriors?”

Legolas laughed in turn, “Each of you made your choice to stand against Lord Fompran. You could always have lived under oppression.”

Yalc sighed, smiling, “True. I suppose fate made it inevitable. But I find it hard to imagine any of us as heroes.”

“Fate has a way of leading ordinary people to extraordinary deeds,” Legolas said. *Ah, I am quoting Langcyll again.*

The young farmer still looked doubtful. He turned away and gazed silently out into the siege camp, the wind ruffling his tousled blond curls. Out in the camp, the soldiers were now crowded around a tent, being handed skins. At first, the observers assumed it was water rations, but the men guzzled in a way that suggested the skins contained something else. And it wasn’t long before their bluster and shouted taunts to the rebels showed a marked increase.

“I DON’T believe it!” exclaimed Kartzel. “Vrall’s handing out wine!”

“Now they’ve really lost it,” chortled Tergian from the tower.

Equally amazed, Legolas shook his head and grinned at Yalc. “Take heart, we need no longer worry about their arrows!”

“Aye, none of them will be able to shoot straight by dawn,” Dersten laughed.

At that point, the soldiers began arraying themselves in mail, and Aragorn and Sarovin joined the others on the wall. “The excitement is about to begin, it seems?” asked Aragorn.

“And our friends out there are getting wined up for the final charge,” said Tergian, pointing gleefully at a group of soldiers having trouble with their armor.

Sarovin grinned, “You’re right; it won’t be long now. Is everyone aware of what position they’re to take?”

“Aye, Sarovin! AND we know which way to put on our chain mail!” someone added.

“Oy! Look!” Tergian pointed at the camp.

From the main tent came the grotesquely fat Lord of Haloel, dressed in absurd red robes (and bearing a goblet of wine.) His soldiers cheered him lustily, and with great bravado, Fompran toasted their imminent victory--several times. It was all Legolas, Aragorn, and Sarovin could do not to howl with laughter. “Ah, now there is one prediction untainted by reality,” Sarovin chuckled.

“Sadly true,” agreed Legolas, not bothering to restrain his grin.

What happened next destroyed the composure of every last one of them. Standing before his assembled soldiers, Lord Fompran threw off his outer robes, revealing equally-red riding clothes that made him look like a giant red beet. Holding out his arms, he stood with pumped-up importance as several of his soldiers clad him in armor.

“By the Valar!” Legolas breathed. “He’s not!”

Finally, Fompran finished the absurd ceremony by girding on a sword, and as his men broke into wild cheers, the rebel army fell apart completely.

Legolas was all but draped over the wall, completely helpless with laughter. Aragorn was equally beside himself; he and Sarovin were having to hold each other upright against their guffaws. Even Yalc had lost it, and he was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his face. The rest of the farmers were faring no better at the ridiculous sight of Fompran strutting around below them.

“Better watch out, men!” Dersten shouted gleefully. “If they use him as catapult ammunition, we’re all in trouble!”

“Ah, so that’s their master plan! We were wrong!” shouted Tergian. “Vrall’s a military genius!”

That remark nearly prostrated Legolas again, along with the others. It amused the elf and Rangers still more to see Vrall standing just behind Fompran--looking slightly ill. *This is the end and he knows it. Such is his misfortune for casting his lot with an unjust lord. He could have chosen to aid the rebels, but that would have meant losing his high position.”

Vrall stepped forward then, and signaled someone the observers could not see. Then Legolas and Aragorn’s laughter abruptly stopped. Several soldiers dragged two struggling horses before Vrall and Fompran. They were saddled, tightly bridled, and wearing mail of their own (which also served to impede their efforts to break free.) But in spite of that, Legolas felt a surge of white-hot fury as he recognized Lanthir, and the black stallion as Aragorn’s horse, Pariedor.

Sarovin, alerted by his friends’ sudden stiffness, asked, “Those are your horses?”

“Yea,” Aragorn said, and the men nearest him jumped back at his tone.

Noting how serious the mood had suddenly become, Dersten told the rebels, “We’d better make ready. They’ll be coming soon.”

Seeing Fompran swinging his enormous bulk onto Pariedor, Aragorn cursed savagely. Legolas made no sound as Vrall mounted Lanthir, striking the gray between the ears as the horse protested. “Lord Fompran shall answer for much, my friends,” Tergian assured them.

“What of Vrall, Master Elf?” Yalc asked delicately. Vrall had managed to steady himself, but Lanthir was fighting the rider’s attempts to steer him. So the captain of Fompran’s army struck the horse’s flank with the broadside of his sword, bloodying the gray hide until Lanthir stopped pitching and bucking.

His eyes black and snapping with ire, Legolas spoke in a low, dangerous voice that froze the blood of all standing near. “He’s mine.”

***

Vrall swore savagely as he fought to keep the gray horse under control. Fompran was having just as much trouble next to him. He could see the rebels mustering on the castle wall. *And there’ll be another wall of them waiting for us if by some miracle we actually get through the gates!”

The rebels were already aiming their bows at the army, and Vrall ordered his men to keep their shields over their heads. They did--and promptly charged towards the gate with a collective yell of challenge. “Wait! Hold!” Vrall shouted.

But the wine had apparently done its courage-instilling job too well, and they paid him no heed. No longer in control, the captain had no choice but to spur his rebellious horse and follow the charge. Somehow, the shields protected most of the men carrying the battering ram (or perhaps the rebels were merely saving their arrows.)

Fompran was just ahead of him, his massive bulk of flesh shaking like a blob of red jam on the horse’s back, waving his sword wildly and shouting encouragement to the men. The soldiers were running so hard that the gates buckled the first time the ram hit them. On the other hand, the force of the impact sent the ram and its bearers tumbling to the ground. That gave Vrall time to ride up to them again, thanking fate that they were too close to the castle for the bowmen on the wall to pick them off.

An arrow struck the ground just inches beyond one of the soldiers, making Vrall wonder if he’d spoken too soon. He looked up at the wall in time to see a slight figure lean back to a safe position. *Probably that elf, curse him and all his race!*

“Get that thing up!” he roared at the men. “Bring it up! Ready, heave, now!”

With a collective groan, the soldiers swung the ram against the gates, hearing them crack in response. “Again!” Crack! “Again!” Crack! “Again!”

CRASH!!!

Their bars splintered, the castle doors swung open. The lead soldiers immediately dropped the ram and charged in, forcing those who followed to climb over it only to meet a hail of arrows the minute they passed into the courtyard. In the press of wine-sotted men, Vrall and Fompran’s horses were forced aside from the gates.

What happened inside the courtyard, Vrall could not see, but the shouts of challenge were answered by a much-louder roar of defiance. There was the sound of running feet, the clang of metal, and then the men still charging through the gate faltered. Fompran spurred his horse back around to come in front of the remaining men. “Forward!” he yowled, riding through.

Vrall had no choice but to follow, and so he led the rest of his men in a wild charge through the gates into the castle courtyard, spurring the protesting horse until its flanks bled again. They found a battle taking place: swords flashed, and arrows flew in every direction. Ahead of him, Fompran was riding through the fray, waving his sword wildly over his head while caterwauling, “Surrender, traitors, your lord has returned!”

Then all at once, a dark-clad figure sprang at the Lord of Haloel and un-horsed him in a flying tackle. It was one of the Rangers, his gray eyes enraged. He did not press his attack, but held the mount’s reigns possessively as half a dozen rebels lunged at their former ruler, shouting out vengeance. Fompran disappeared beneath a press of furious men.

Even before Vrall could react, a hand suddenly seized the front of his collar and jerked him half-off his own mount. Never had Vrall known such terror as that moment, when he found his face merely inches from the elf. The immortal’s black eyes, blazing with a terrifying fury, flicked from the man to the horse, then back to the man again. His voice was like the edge of a sword as he growled, “Get off my horse!”

Then Vrall found himself sailing through the air until he crashed into the courtyard wall and slid to the ground with a grunt. Staggering to his feet, he turned around, and the last thing he ever saw was an arrow heading straight for his face.

***

Aragorn seized Lanthir’s reigns and bade the horse join Pariedor in safety outside the castle. He turned around in time to see Vrall drop with one of Legolas’s arrows in his neck. *Perhaps he was merely a fool, but he bought his own death the moment he struck that elf’s horse.* Pariedor had suffered similar abuse at the Haloel loyalists’ hands, and for that they would pay dearly.

Turning his attention back to the battle, Aragorn launched himself at a pair of soldiers menacing Dersten. The Ranger took out one and turned back to find that Dersten was holding his own against the other, deflecting the hardest blows and dodging and counterattacking. *When this is over, I shall ask the son of Thranduil for additional instruction to myself,* Aragorn thought admiringly.

A battle cry from behind made the heir of Isildur whirl around just in time to parry a fierce blow from another loyalist guard. He retreated under a furious barrage of blows as three more closed in on him. In spite of the loyalists’ inferior skill, it was three against one, and Aragorn felt a surge of dread as his back came against the courtyard wall.

One of the loyalists hefted a spear while the other two boxed Aragorn in--then the spearman pitched over with an arrow in his back, the spear falling useless at his side. The Ranger looked up, expecting to see Legolas, but instead, a curly-headed young farmer stood upon the wall, launching arrows into Aragorn’s other two attackers. Waving gratefully at Yalc, Aragorn charged back into the melee.

The rest of the loyalists, drunk as they were, had finally begun to realize that the battle was not going their way. Aragorn could see Dersten and several others running to shut the gates and trap their enemies inside. The soldiers suddenly found themselves with no escape, and Aragorn was nearly trampled in the stampede for the stairs by loyalists hoping to get over the wall.

The Ranger charged a group trying to beat open a corridor door. Two of the men leapt at him, swords flashing, while the rest tried another door, looking for a way out of the courtyard that had suddenly become a death trap.

“Down!” Sarovin shouted, and the younger Ranger dropped. Both of his opponents were instantly felled by arrows--one of them elvish.

A cry of warning alerted Aragorn as he rose; some of the loyalists had gotten through a door into the castle. He sprinted after them, hearing Dersten shout, “They could get to the women and children through that passage!”

With Sarovin a step behind him, he raced into the corridor, looking frantically to see which direction the soldiers had gone. Screams down the passage told them all too clearly, and they raced for the great hall. The rebels and Rangers arrived to find nearly twenty loyalist soldiers trying to get past Yalc and Tergian into a hall full of the farmers’ terrified families.

The rebels rushed to engage them, but the corridor was too narrow to give Yalc and Tergian effective aid. From behind, Aragorn heard Legolas say to several others, “We can get in from the other side! Come!” Several rebels and the elf bolted.

In front of Aragorn, through the mass of fighting bodies, Yalc and Tergian were in serious trouble. One of the loyalists had managed to break down the door before being felled, but the two rebels refused to retreat from the doorway. Cursing, their friends struggled to get to them, but there were too many soldiers in the way, and the two farmers were overwhelmed. Three of the loyalists disarmed Tergian, and screams rang out as a sword ran him through. Yalc gave a cry of rage and lunged, but there were far too many, and they forced him back.

Aragorn rammed his sword into another soldier and thrust the carcass aside, struggling to reach Yalc before the remaining soldiers killed him and got the farmers’ families as hostages. Another he swept aside with a dagger. Dersten dispatched two more and the rebels pressed forward.

They were too late. The last eight or so loyalists converged upon Yalc and bore the young farmer to the ground, leaping over his bloody form and into the hall. With a roar of rage and challenge, the rebels raced after them. The loyalists charged into the hall toward the women and children pressed in terror against the far wall. All at once, an arrow whizzed from the crowd to embed itself in the group leader’s chest. Niradam, Dersten’s wife, hurriedly but effectively notched another arrow and let it fly into another soldier. Just then, the opposite door of the hall burst open, and another group of furious rebels charged in, led by a bow-wielding Legolas. The elf prince dropped three more in rapid succession, and by that time the remaining five had seen enough. They threw down their weapons at Dersten’s order to surrender.

Aragorn ran back out to the courtyard to find that the remaining loyalists there had also surrendered. Kartzel came out to join him on the wall, staring at the bodies littering the ground, the blood staining the walls, the ravaged fields, and the remnants of the siege camp.

“Is it over?” the farmer asked, sounding dazed.

“Let us hope so,” murmured the Ranger. For centuries, Haloel had been a peaceful land, and this revolt had given her more than enough bloodshed for many lifetimes.

“Strider!” several of the farmers came from within the castle. “Yalc still lives! Alagion asks for your help at once!” Aragorn immediately ran from the wall.

***

The great hall had been converted now into an infirmary for all the wounded. Sarovin was treating an arrow wound when he saw Aragorn enter. “Yalc lives,” the elder Ranger said by way of greeting. “But he’s badly hurt. You’re the best healer.”

Aragorn made his way to where Yalc lay upon a blanket. The young farmer’s fair curly hair was streaked with sweat, dirt, and blood, and his fair skin had a clammy, pasty look. He was cut and bruised in many places, but the worst of the injuries was a stab wound from which he had lost far too much blood. A young, dark-haired woman knelt at his side, tragedy covering her fair face. It was Enilosa, Yalc’s wife. Her dark eyes met Aragorn’s as her last hope.

Alagion returned from tending another patient and knelt beside Aragorn. “How can I help?” the elf asked grimly.

“Hold him while I bathe the wounds.”

Returning her eyes to her husbands face, Enilosa asked them, “Is there aught I might do?”

Looking around the bustling hall, Aragorn told her softly, ’I shall need more athelas and water, Lady.” Quickly, drying the tear streaks on her face, Enilosa rose and hurried away.

Sarovin, Kartzel, and the others continued with the rest of the wounded. The women, though not warriors, knew much of healing and moved among the injured men, sending the children to fetch supplies. Sarovin thought, *When their dead are laid to rest, their wounds healed, and a new lord chosen, the people of Haloel shall build this land anew.*

A rather frazzled-looking Dersten came to Sarovin. “Have you the keys to the dungeon?”

“There’s no one in the dungeon,” Sarovin said in confusion.

Scowling, Dersten replied, “There is going to be.”

“One of the prisoners is causing trouble?” asked Kartzel.

“Aye. He’ll be safe in the dungeons, and I’ll not suffer my men to listen to his bleating after fighting all morning.”

Sarovin chuckled wryly and handed him the keys. “That is an act of mercy.”

Dersten sent three of the men to relocate the bothersome prisoner (one needed not guess who it was!), then he turned back to Sarovin. “We’ve a tally of the casualties.”

Sarovin braced himself. “And?”

“Twelve of ours dead, twenty-nine badly wounded.”

The elder Ranger winced. “What about Fompran’s force?”

“Vrall’s dead, along with more than half of his men. The rest fled or surrendered. Not enough escaped us to make us worry about a second attack, I think.”

Sarovin closed his eyes, sighing in relief and weariness. “Then it’s over.”

“Well over,” Dersten replied. “And may we never know war again.”

***

In Mirkwood, some weeks later…

Limloeth dismounted her horse and hurried up the steps of the outer palace to where her brother awaited her. “Berensul!” she threw her arms around the Crown Prince, laughing with joy.

“Ah, sister, I am so glad to see you,” Berensul said, hugging her tightly. “As is your niece,” he added, as a blur of gold and white came flying down the steps, shouting for her aunt Limloeth.

“Ai!” Limloeth caught up Silivren and spun the child around. Kneeling, she embraced her niece. “Ohh, I’ve missed you so, Sili!”

“I’ve missed you too,” Silivren said. “It’s been so dull since you and Uncle Orthelian and Uncle Legolas left. Where’s Uncle Orthelian?”

“He was detained in Lórien, I fear,” Limloeth said, casting an apologetic glance at Berensul. “He sends his regrets.”

“I am sorry he could not come,” Crown Princess Eirien said sadly. “Is the situation in Lórien so bad?”

Lowering her voice so Silivren would not hear, Limloeth murmured, “The shadow deepens. The numbers of our people there are lessening.”

Berensul’s eyebrows raised with alarm. “I have read the messages; I didn’t think so many had fallen in the Golden Wood.”

Limloeth’s bright eyes darkened with a sorrow not born of simple death. “Nay, not fallen. But leaving. In the past thirty years, nearly one of every ten Galadhrim in Lothlórien has departed over the sea. The song of Caras Galadhon seems to grow weaker with each passing year. Soon there will be none left.”

The news clearly grieved her kindred. In Mirkwood, the Silvan elves struggled on with Dol Guldor right in their midst--so how was it that the Galadhrim fled Middle Earth in ever-growing numbers? After wedding Orthelian, Limloeth had hoped to make the Golden Wood her home. But how long would it be before Caras Galadhon was utterly deserted? How long?

A sad sigh from Berensul brought her back to reality. “Well, we’ve enough to concern ourselves with now without dwelling on the bleak future. You should not tarry too long before seeing Father.”

And there broached the subject that promised to be the most unpleasant of all. “How has he been?”

“You know what happened when the war party returned?”

“Yes. Where is Legolas now?”

“No one knows. I’ve thought many times about trying to get a message to him, but I’ve no idea where to search. There has been no word of him from Lórien or Rivendell or any of the other elven realms,” Berensul shook his head helplessly. “After the way they parted, Sister, I do not know when…or if…Legolas will ever come back.”

“He MUST come back!” Limloeth gasped, seizing his arm urgently. “He must, Beren! So much depends…” she broke off, her brown eyes darkened with fear.

“What do you mean?” Berensul asked her softly.

Taking a deep breath, she regained control of herself. “I cannot say more, Brother. Only that Legolas and Father must make peace, for far more than their feelings are at stake. Oh, curse their pride!” She folded her arms in irritation, then started up the stairs with a shake of her head.

“You will try to talk to him?” her brother asked.

“Someone must. It will do no good persuading Legolas to return if the king will not accept him. And he must, Beren. He must!”

Limloeth came before the elven king in his throne room within the mountain. Although not as violently repelled by caves as her younger siblings, she still disliked the feeling of being under stone. The atmosphere in the room was oppressive enough on its own. It struck her like a slap to see that Thranduil had visibly aged since she had last seen him after Silivren’s birth thirty years before. He looked weary and desolate, but at the same time, there was a hard bitterness that made the difficult conversation she wished to have still more challenging.

Her father rose as she came into the Hall. “Welcome, my daughter!”

She bowed to the king and walked quickly to embrace him, “Hello, Father.”

Thranduil stepped back and smiled at her, but the expression did not reach his eyes. It had been more than thirty years since Limloeth had seen him appear truly happy. “I hope your journey was uneventful.”

“Not entirely, but I fear journeys seldom are anymore. Still, we arrived unharmed.”

“That is well.”

Limloeth took a deep breath. “Father, there is a matter I would speak with you about…”

But Thranduil was looking distractedly at the other elves in the room. “Soon, my dear, soon. But for the moment, I am occupied. I shall see you at dinner this evening.”

“I--” Limloeth started to press the issue, then decided against it. She had expected nothing less, really, than that Thranduil would try to avoid the painful subject. He might be aging and embittered, but his mind was more than sharp enough to be aware of the first thing his daughter would want to speak of.

*Very well, Dear Father, I shall let it go for the moment. I had hoped to speak to you alone, but it is clear you will not allow it. Therefore, you shall hear my mind tonight whether you wish it or not. You cannot run from me forever.*

As she walked out of the cave and back into the sunlight, the princess idly plucked an elm leaf from a low branch, caressing it with her fingertips. Berensul had told her in detail of the events leading up to the calamitous row between the elven king and his youngest son. For some strange reason, now she smiled. *In many ways, Father, this quarrel was inevitable. For he has grown up very much like you.*

***

Thranduil ordered a fine dinner for all his children in the palace that evening. He had hoped that the presence of his granddaughter would prevent Limloeth from bring up the subject of Legolas, and it did--if only Silivren had been so inhibited. “How long will you be here, Aunt Limloeth?”

Pausing from eating, the king’s daughter beamed at her niece. “Some precious time, I hope, Sili. Do not worry, I shall have time to give you many rides ere I depart.”

The little girl beamed like the sun coming out, but Thranduil averted his eyes. When she did that, she looked just as Legolas had at that age. It was yet another painful reminder. Casually, he asked his granddaughter, “Shall you ride on the river or Limloeth’s horse tomorrow, Silivren?”

Cocking her head in careful consideration, the child finally replied, “I want to ride the boat down the river!”

The family nodded in amused confirmation of her decision. Eirien remarked, “Beware, Sister, she demands to sail further and further downriver every time. Someday she will want to go all the way to Lake Town!” The others laughed.

Silivren nodded eagerly, “And I’ll go see Lonely Mountain, where the dragon is! Uncle Leg’las told me all about it!”

Thranduil winced inwardly--as he always did at hearing the name--but forced himself to say lightly, “The dragon is long dead, Silivren. There is little to see there now.”

Across the table, his daughter leveled piercing and too-seeing brown eyes at him. Without breaking his gaze, Limloeth said in a too-casual tone, “What else did Uncle Legolas tell you, Sili?”

Not noticing how tense the rest of her family had grown, the elf child replied, “Lots of stories, about his adventures. I want to be a warrior and have adventures!”

Still looking directly at Thranduil, Limloeth replied, “Perhaps you shall, Sili. Perhaps you shall. Uncle Legolas has had many adventures.”

This was NOT a subject he wanted discussed with his granddaughter. This was not a subject he wanted to discuss with anyone at all. “Limloeth!” Thranduil hissed fiercely.

“When is Uncle Leg’las coming home?” Silivren asked.

The innocent, slightly wistful question slammed into Thranduil like a battering ram. It was fortunate that Sili had been directing the question at Limloeth, or she would have seen her grandfather openly flinch. But all the rest of his children did see it. And their eyes were accusing, yet oblivious to the pain that their talk was raking up. Still in that falsely cheerful tone, Limloeth said, “I know not, Sili. Perhaps your grandfather might know.”

*Curse that girl! She has not the sense to leave the subject alone!* But Silivren’s inquiring blue eyes were upon him now, and Thranduil had to clear his throat to answer her. “I…your uncle is going very far, Silivren. He may be gone a very long time.”

“Oh.” Her dejected tone hurt his heart. Limloeth and Berensul were scowling as openly as they dared at their father. Thranduil glared back. *They fret so over Legolas, but think not of the pain their prying causes their father! Legolas turned them against me as well!*

Eirien had evidently had enough. Rising, she said briskly, “It is time for your bath, Sili. You’ve a busy day tomorrow if you plan to sail the river with your aunt. Come.” During all the centuries Eirien had dwelt in the elven king’s halls, her mild approach had been a defusing influence on Thranduil many times. But now she had her own child to care for. Perhaps if she had stayed, the discussion would have gone differently.

As it was, no sooner had she and her daughter departed the room than the table erupted into angry words. “Limloeth, I think I made it clear the subject is closed!”

“Do not bark at me, Father, I am now so easily cowed by you!”

“Watch your tongue, Daughter!”

“You cannot pretend Legolas does not exist! Do you know aught of where he is?”

“Nay, nor do I care! I will not speak of it!”

“Fah! Do not deceive yourself! If you cared not, such talk would not pain you! But I see your grief, Father!” Limloeth stood up and leaned across the table, not shouting, but very forceful. “There must be a peace between you!”

Thranduil glared furiously at her. “This feud was not of my making, Limloeth. I may have made some mistakes, but I am not to blame for its ill end.”

Now Berensul joined in, and to the king’s further rage, he too sided with Legolas! “There is plenty of blame to go round, Father. You both should leave off your pride.”

“So you challenge me as well!”

“It is NOT a challenge!” Berensul snapped, throwing his hands into the air. “I am frustrated by the foolishness of you both! Look at yourself, Father! You raged when he refused to speak to you, yet you respond to the situation in the same fashion! One day your stubbornness will get one or both of you killed!”

“Have done, both of you! I do not desire to discuss the subject further!”

“What will you do, throw us in the dungeons?” his eldest son demanded. “I wish my brother home again!”

Limloeth was catching her breath, and laid a hand upon her brother’s shoulder to silence him. In a soft, more supplicant tone, she said to Thranduil, “Father, the situation must be resolved. You cannot continue this way. Do you truly wish to never see him again?”

For a moment, Thranduil faltered. The face of Legolas, his son, swam through his mind, at many ages, all through his short elven life. For a moment, he was consumed by a longing to have his child back. But then in his mind he saw Legolas’s hard, unforgiving face, and heard his bitter words as his youngest son left Mirkwood so precipitously that last time. And Thranduil felt a surge of bitter anger that he had no wish to share with his prying children. “I will not discuss it.”

Limloeth turned away, her eyes closed, and she seemed near to weeping. Berensul, on the other hand, looked utterly disgusted, and his black eyes flashed with a fury still greater. “You fool!” the Crown Prince whispered. “You spiteful, unforgiving fool!”

Catching her breath in a sound very much like a sob, Limloeth turned pleading eyes to the king. “Father--”

“Save your breath, Lim!” Berensul said scornfully. “He will not hear you. He would not relinquish his vanity were Legolas even to suffer Lalaith, Meren, and Tavron’s fates!”

“ENOUGH!” Thranduil roared, slamming both fists upon the table. His son and daughter jerked back, distraught. Later, Thranduil would recall those details, but at the moment he could feel only bitterness and rage. “This matter shall not be raised in my presence again; that is my final word on the subject!” With that, the elven king turned sharply and marched from the room, his jarring steps startling the other elves in the palace, as anger born of hurt boiled within him.

That night, the dream came again.  


***

In Haloel, around the same time…

*If these people learned nothing else, they know now that even the most justified war is won at great price,* thought Legolas, as he stood atop the eastern tower, facing the plains. The northeasterly wind blew over his face and through his hair, cool and smelling of trees. A surge of loneliness swept through him, with an intensity bordering on physical pain. He knew the scents carried on the wind; it was blowing almost directly from Mirkwood. *I wonder what they are doing now?*

“You look far away, Master Elf.”

Legolas jumped. Sheepishly, he turned and saw Yalc, one arm in a sling and leaning on a makeshift crutch. “Even wounded, you have the stealth of an elf, Yalc of Haloel.”

“Would that my wounds were able to heal.” Despair in his brown eyes, Yalc looked at Legolas. “I cannot make my living without two good arms, nor tend the fields on a crutch.”

“Strider said they may yet heal, my friend. Do not lose hope.”

The young man sighed. “I suppose such sacrifices are the way of all warriors.”

“It is true,” Legolas said with regret. “But that does not mean they are liked by any warrior. None wish to see comrades wounded or slain.”

Yalc looked quickly away, and Legolas put a hand lightly upon his shoulder. A moment later, he voiced what the elf knew had been on his mind. “When Tergian came and called my wife and me to the castle that day…none of us ever imagined he would die. Him least of all.” He looked back at Legolas. “Is it at all different for elves?”

Feeling a surge of deep inner grief at the memories being surfaced by this talk, Legolas nonetheless answered. “Nay. Death is never expected. We mourn the fallen no less, and I shall never become accustomed to it even if I live for thousands of years.” *Please do not ask me to be specific…*

Yalc looked speculatively at him, and Legolas feared that the man would question his own past experiences. But what the young farmer said startled him greatly. Hesitantly, Yalc said, “I heard Lord Aragorn refer to you as Legolas, prince of Mirkwood. Are you then the son of King Thranduil?”

Legolas turned sharply to face him. “How…”

“We heard you talking a few days before the attack.” Yalc grinned for the first time since the battle. “Fear not; we’ve told no one. None but Dersten and I know that the heir to the throne of Gondor and an elven prince lent us their aid.”

With a sigh of relief, the son of Thranduil smiled back. “I am most grateful for your discretion. But I would ask that you do me the favor of keeping our true names to yourselves.”

Yalc shrugged. “If you wish. The rest of the men shall go on believing that our saviors were Strider the Ranger, and Alagion, the wayward elf.” He and Legolas laughed. “But I do hope Aragorn at least remains here. We have need of a just leader. I know you will not be able to stay. You must long for your own people.”

Legolas did not answer, merely gave an ambiguous half-shrug, half-smile, hoping that would close the matter. It did not. Yalc was still watching him. “Kartzel thought it was incredible that immortals might feel such a mundane emotion as homesickness. I thought, among strange people in a strange race’s war, you must surely have longed to be away more than any of us.”

Legolas still did not answer, but Yalc’s sympathetic expression said that the silence was all the answer the farmer had needed.

*****

 

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Alagion: Legolas’s alias  
Strider: Oh, come on!  
Sarovin: An older Ranger, a friend of Aragorn’s  
Dersten, Yalc, Kartzel, Tergian: rebels of Haloel  
Niradam: Dersten’s wife  
Elinosa: Yalc’s wife  
Fompran: Deposed Lord of Haloel  
Vrall: Fompran’s captain

Lanthir: Legolas’s horse  
Pariedor: Aragorn’s horse  



	22. Feasting, Frolicking, and Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

Two months after the rebel victory in Haloel marked the end of mourning for all those who had fallen. The toll had been heavy. Tergian and the other eleven farmers had been laid to rest where the siege camp had used to be, and the artisans were building a monument to their sacrifice. But along with the twelve fatalities had been many injuries. The skills of the Rangers, elf, and Haloel healers had saved most of the wounded, but the scars remained. Tergian had been one of the leaders of the group, and was deeply missed, having left behind a wife and two children. Yalc had survived the assault on the Great Hall, but the young farmer would always walk with a limp, and it was unlikely he would ever regain the full use of his left hand. Yet he was alive.

Now, the men of Haloel faced the still-tougher business of determining who would rule their small kingdom--and how. An assembly was called in the Great Hall, but when all the men and women were gathered, Aragorn and Legolas exchanged glances. The man and elf rose, attracting the attention of all.

Seeing Legolas’s nod, Aragorn spoke for them both. “Alagion and I feel that the decision of rulership for Haloel should be decided without our presence. It is a matter for her people.”

If nothing else, the cries of protest were gratifying to the two. “We could not have won this without your counsel!” Yalc said, gaining control of the others. “This decisions is just as vital as those during the siege!”

“Aye,” agreed Kartzel. “And we could use the objectivity of ones not from this land.”

“And you shall have it,” Legolas told them. Nodding toward the third foreigner in the room, he said, “Sarovin was with you, guiding you, from the start. If there is one entitled to serve as moderator in this meeting, let it be him.”

The men looked disappointed, but allowed the two to depart. Aragorn and Legolas walked out the castle gates and wandered through the fields to wait out the deliberations. Many of the vines and gardens that were trampled in the fighting had been tied up again, and the debris of the siege had been cleared away. The rebellion had destroyed much of the season’s crop, but if the Halorrim were able to organize effective leadership, they might yet be able to save the rest.

“Leaving them now was a wise decision,” Aragorn remarked as they walked.

Legolas looked at him oddly. “Perhaps.”

Returning the elf’s speculative gaze, the Ranger said, “An internal decision such as this was no place for a foreign Ranger.”

“And certainly not for an elf!” Legolas said with a laugh. But he raised an eyebrow at Aragorn. “Still, Sarovin chose to stay. He is foreign, yet he is a man, and a wise one. Perhaps you should have stayed as well. The men of Haloel would have benefited from your guidance.”

“As soldiers, maybe, but not as a government,” the heir of Isildur replied dismissively. “They need not my counsel anymore.”

“Then why did Sarovin stay?”

The younger Ranger’s eyes followed two gray mockingbirds chasing each other over the tops of the vines. “Sarovin had been wandering the wild for decades before he came to Haloel. Even the last time I met him, he had stayed longer here than any other place.”

Legolas smiled faintly; he had obviously suspected as much. “You think he has chosen to stay?”

“I am nearly certain. But he will have the good sense not to let them elevate him. The Halorrim must look to their own for leadership.”

“Haloel was a province of Gondor once,” the elf commented mildly.

Aragorn turned and noticed the intense stare Legolas was giving him. “Do not be ridiculous.”

Legolas stopped walking. “The men of Gondor are scattered, leaderless. I have seen some of those living closest to Mordor; Sauron’s beasts prey upon them at will because they cannot organize enough to fight. Why do you live in exile, son of Arathorn, when your people need you more than ever?”

“You are the son of Thranduil; do not pretend you know naught of my bloodline,” Aragorn looked away. “You know what role my blood played in the return of the shadow.”

Legolas was silent. Then, in a very strange tone, he said softly, “You are ashamed.” Aragorn did not answer, for it had not been a question. “You are ashamed of who you are, because Isildur’s weakness allowed the spirit of Sauron and the Ring of power to live.”

The revelation of the elven warrior‘s true identity had not silenced all the questions that swam in Aragorn‘s mind about Legolas. One in particular he both wished and feared to know. To look at, he would guess that Legolas was quite young for an elf, certainly much younger than Elrond, probably younger than the twins and Arwen, yet…young was still a relative term. He could not be certain. How personally did Legolas take the weakness of Isildur? There was one way to know… “You were not there at Mount Doom?” the man finally forced himself to ask.

He watched Legolas’s face with combined curiosity and dread. But instead of embittered or doubtful, the elf merely looked startled--and somewhat amused. “Nay,” Legolas replied with a little shake of his head. “I am not that old…not even close,” he added with a wry twist of his mouth. “I know only what I have been told.”

Aragorn smiled himself at the irony. “I can imagine all too well what your elders of Mirkwood told you of Isildur and all his kindred. Why do you not despise me as the other wood elves do?”

There it was again! That shadow of anger and pain in the prince’s eyes…yet it was not directed at Aragorn. After a long and very loud silence, Legolas said, “I have found it better to judge the world by seeing it myself rather than letting others judge it for me.”

Ordinary mortals regarded the calm, aloof demeanor of elves as the true nature of their personality. But Aragorn recognized it as a shield, a shell to hide the intense inner emotions that all elves possessed. One could see past the exterior if one knew where to look. As with mortals, the eyes of elves could be windows to their hearts, and Aragorn needed only to look at the stormy dark eyes of the elven prince to know that he carried a tempest within.

*Still you keep secrets, Legolas of Mirkwood. I have grown in the House of Elrond, beside Elladan and Elrohir, I have loved Arwen--and Glorfindel is hardly mundane, if such a word can describe any of the Eldar. Yet I can safely say that you, son of Thranduil, are by far the most interesting elf I have ever met.*

Before he could think up a means of prying further, Legolas changed the subject. “Who do you think the Halorrim will choose as their lord?”

They walked down to the riverbank and sat there. Aragorn rubbed his chin for a moment before replying, “I wonder if they will decide against a single lord altogether, after their experience with Fompran.”

“True,” Legolas agreed. “They might elect a council, as the villages do. Such a group might serve the Halorrim well.”

Aragorn idly tossed a stone into the water. “If they do choose a single lord, my wager would be on Dersten. He was the best of their fighters.”

Twirling an arrow in his fingertips, the elf considered that. “Perhaps,” he murmured. They were quite accurate, Aragorn’s words, and yet… “Perhaps not.”

Rising again, Aragorn gazed around the valley with a worried frown. “Where have our horses gone?”

Legolas rose and pointed. “I see them. They graze on the hill there, north.”

“How fares your mount?”

“Well,” Legolas replied, his eyes darkening further with angry memory. Lanthir had recovered from the wounds inflicted by Vrall, but the cruelty still made his rider’s blood boil. “The Halorrim treated his wounds with great skill, yet he remains still more skittish towards men.”

“Pariedor suffered the same,” said Aragorn, feeling a surge of ire himself. “But he too is healed.” The Ranger squinted in the direction Legolas had pointed, but though his eyes ached, he could not see the two horses. The elf and man heard someone approaching. It was a boy, bearing a message from the castle. “The people have chosen their new lord, Masters. He shall be announced at the feast tonight.”

“Hm. Very mysterious.” The two friends walked back up the bank, heading east towards the castle. “This should be interesting.”

***

What foodstuffs the Halorrim had lost in the siege, they replaced with the supplies captured from the camp. So there was little need for stinginess at the feast to celebrate the new rulership of Haloel. Most of the people were aleady seated at the tables in the Great Hall, but Aragorn and Legolas were asked to wait.

“His Lordship wishes to welcome you properly,” they were told. When all the others, including Sarovin, had entered the Hall, the herald turned to them. “Now it is time.” As the doors of the Hall opened, he announced, “My lords! Strider of the Dúnedain and Alagion of Mirkwood!”

Elf and Ranger exchanged a quick grin as they walked into the great room. Long tables spanned its length, and it seemed that every man, woman, and child of Haloel was present, craning their necks for a view of the heroes. Great platters of meats, breads, fruits, cakes, and sweetmeats adorned the tables among numerous flagons of wine. Closer to the front of the room sat the many men who had fought for Haloel’s freedom--now the uniformed soldiers of Haloel’s guard. At the very front, beneath a silk canopy, sat another table. The greatness of the chairs bespoke the rank of those who sat there. Two were vacant. In one place of obvious esteem, but not the highest, sat Sarovin. In another sat Dersten, and beside him Niradam, his wife.

The man at the center of the table (occupying the greatest chair) rose to greet them, followed by the others. “You are most welcome, honored warriors.”

Not bothering to hide their smiles, Aragorn and Legolas bowed in unison. “You are most gracious, my lord.”

From behind them, the herald announced, “I present Yalc, son of Raln, Lord of Haloel!”

Beside the young lord, the Lady of Haloel, Enilosa, gestured to the two vacant chairs. “Pray, be seated, Strider and Alagion.”

The Halorrim responded with great applause and praise as the elf and Ranger took their places among the leaders of Haloel. As the feast commenced, more introductions were made. Aragorn and Legolas were presented to Castellan Dersten, captain of the official guard, and Kartzel, official representative of Haloel’s farmers and winemakers. And then there was Sarovin, Lord Yalc’s advisor and representative of Haloel in foreign matters.

“There, my lord,” Legolas said to Yalc. “You did not need our help to choose a wise leadership.”

Dressed in robes of fine green linen and velvet, his blonde curls neat upon his head, Yalc nonetheless had not lost the youth of his light brown eyes. Although at the moment, he seemed slightly bewildered. “I wish I had your confidence, Master L--Alagion.”

Dersten waved a dismissive hand. “Heed the elf’s wise words, my friend; you’re the best of us all.”

“I would have preferred Dersten in this too-exalted position,” Yalc confessed to the others with a smile.

“Nonsense. I’m a fighter, not a thinker! If there’s anything we learned from Fompran, it’s that we need wisdom in our leaders.”

Yalc smiled good-naturedly and signaled for the guests to dine. Then when all were occupied with food, he leaned over to the elf and murmured, “I suspect it was a choice based more upon my loss of worth as a farmer, friend Legolas. For I cannot imagine why one might consider me ‘wise.’”

“Wisdom is in the eyes of the beholders, Lord of Haloel,” Legolas replied softly. “And be assured, I have long counted you the wisest of all these.”

“And the wisdom of an elven warrior is of a great weight indeed,” Lady Enilosa put in quietly, her dark eyes twinkling.

Legolas gazed past Yalc at her, and suspected she too knew who he was. Judging by Yalc’s rather startled expression, the man had not told her. *The Lady misses little,* thought the elf. *Both rulers of Haloel shall be of great service to their people.*

His musings were interrupted by a question from Kartzel. “Have you tasted Haloel wine before, Master Elf?”

Before Legolas could reply, Dersten slapped the new wine minister on the back. “Of course he has, you lout! He’s from Mirkwood! All the elves drink our wines, and none more than his King Thranduil. Am I right, Master Alagion?”

Aragorn shot Legolas an anxious look, but the elf smiled amiably. “It is said that Haloel wine is the elven king’s favorite. I have had it on occasion. It is always a fine vintage.”

The Halorrim exchanged approving looks. “Mirkwood has not traded with us for centuries,” remarked Niradam. “Do you save it for special occasions only, then?”

“Just so,” Legolas replied, inclining his head to her.

With a twinkle in his gray eyes that instantly put Legolas on his guard, Aragorn said lightly, “Either that or it is too potent for them to drink on ordinary occasions.”

The great roar of laughter that swept the Hall drowned out any protestations the elf made. Wiping tears from his eyes, Yalc teased, “Is that the case, Master Elf?”

Shooting a glare at the sniggering Ranger, Legolas said firmly, “Nay.” The men laughed again at his defensive tone.

“Come, come,” Enilosa chided them. “Alagion is an elf, after all. One would imagine their tolerance for drink far exceeds that of most mortals.”

“ANY mortal, my lady,” Legolas added slyly, grinning at Aragorn at the same time.

The Halorrim roared their appreciation of the jibe. Dersten clapped his hands. “Aye, I doubt a Ranger has much time for drinking, friend Strider. He could easily outlast you.”

“Perhaps, but I would remind him, he is not the first elf whose company I have been graced with, and I can assure you that weapons are not the only skill I have learnt from his race.”

The wine flagons were already circulating freely, and that combined with an abundance of good food made the company quite merry: elf and Rangers included. Kartzel shook his head. “I don’t think there are many men who could drink with an elf. But if there are, we’d find them in a place where wine is a way of life!”

Many of the men pounded their tables in agreement. Aragorn raised his eyebrows at them and jerked his head at Legolas. “I fear, gentlemen, that our immortal friend is somewhat skeptical of your claim. What say you, Alagion, could you hold your own with a wineman of Haloel?”

Mildly, the elf replied, “I know not for sure, good Strider, but I worry that the men of Haloel would have cause to regret it tomorrow if we attempted to find out tonight.”

That did not settle the issue; a collective indignant shout went up from the men, and goblets rose in challenge. By this time, many were yawning, and the children sent out. Now, Enilosa, Niradam, and Relean, Kartzel’s wife, exchanged glances. The Great Hall was briefly silenced as the three women rose in unison. “It appears that you gentlemen intend to continue this debate well into the night,” Enilosa said, “but I think it is time for the ladies of Haloel to retire. Until tomorrow, my lords, we take our leave.”

The other women followed their Lady’s lead, and as they passed through the doors, Niradam heard her husband say, “Now, where were we?”

Enilosa chuckled, “I fear the business of ruling Haloel shall fall to us tomorrow morning, Ladies, for our husbands shall likely be indisposed.”

***

Her prediction was already coming true. No sooner had the ladies of Haloel departed the room than Yalc called for more food--and even more wine. “It seems you must prove your prowess yet again, Master Elf.”

Legolas did not refuse the offered refill of red wine, but cautioned, “Take care to remember the last time we held a contest between elves and men, my lord.”

Laughter and shouts of challenge were the response, and with a shrug, Legolas rose, beckoning for silence. “Then let us begin this revelry in the proper manner, friends!” He raised his goblet. “I give you Lord Yalc!”

The other men sprang to their feet and joined the toast, “Lord Yalc!” and drank with great gusto.

“Long life and happiness!” toasted Legolas.

“Long life and happiness!” chorused the men.

“Health!” Sarovin added.

“Health!” everyone cried.

“Health and wealth!” corrected Kartzel.

“Health and wealth!”

Aragorn raised his goblet. “Health, wealth, and a steady hand!”

“Hear hear!”

As goblets were refilled, Legolas took a discreet look around. He grinned to himself; many of the men were already flushed and blinking quite a bit. Tonight promised to be frightfully amusing.

***

Many toasts later…

Aragorn could not recall an occasion when he had imbibed so much, but to his relief, he seemed to be keeping pace with Legolas and the Halorrim. Meaning to say, he was no more befuddled than they seemed to be.

But as it was, Aragorn was beginning to feel very warm, and a little light-headed. Normally, it would take something far more potent to phase him, but the sheer volume tonight was threatening to put him in his cups. But it seemed that Legolas was not entirely unaffected either. “Well, Master Elf, either the reputation of the Eldar as great drinkers is faulty or you are falling short of it.”

Legolas drew himself up with rather theatric indignation, “You are not exactly a model of sobriety yourself, Man of the West!”

“Aye, Master Strider,” Dersten gleefully waggled a finger at the tipsy Ranger. “Your face is a little red!”

Aragorn laughed out loud, “Look who is speaking, friend! You are the color of Lord Fompran’s riding gear!”

“Bwahahahaha!” Sarovin flung himself backward in his chair, howling with laughter and nodding, gesturing at Dersten’s very flushed face.

Legolas (still as fair-faced as ever to the irritation of all) raised his eyebrows and said blithely, “Judging by the sound of that laugh, Master Sarovin is not doing so well himself!”

“Just wait, Alagion, we’ll have you dancing on the tables before the night is out!”

“Not before the rest of you are under the tables!”

“HAH!!!” Yalc attacked one of the platters and brandished a whole carrot at Legolas. “The night is yet young; I challenge you to prove that intimation before dawn!”

“HAH!!!” Legolas now dove for the platter, and in turn attempted to wield a banana in response. “I accept--” unfortunately he squeezed too hard, and with a sound like the squelch of a boot in a mud puddle, the banana disintegrated and emptied its filling all over the prince’s hand. “Oh, ah…”

“SO!! A model of sobriety, are you?!” demanded Aragorn, pointing and directing the laughter of all at the chagrinned elf.

“All right, all right, enough of that nonsense!” Dersten scolded them. “We’ve many yet to be honored with toasts tonight!”

Sarovin slammed the table so hard the dishes shook. “Very true!” He sprang to his feet, knocking over his chair. “My lords! I give you Castellan Dersten!”

Goblets were thrust wildly into the air. “Castellan Dersten!”

“Captain of the guard!”

“First oaf of the army!”

Dersten choked on his wine and stared accusingly about the room. “Who said that?!”

None confessed, and then Yalc sprang to his feet. “I give you Kartzel, the Wine Minister!”

“To the Wine Minister!”

“To the Wine Monster!”

“The Wine Mister!”

“The Wine Minstrel!”

“The Wine Spinster!”

“WHAT?! Now wait just a sodding minute!”

“Sotting is right!”

“I said ‘sodding,’ you moron!”

If Aragorn had been as observant as usual, he would have noticed that Legolas was now growing flushed and laughing quite helplessly at the exchange. “Wait a moment,” the elf protested, nearly knocking his goblet over. “Aren’t we supposed to be toasting Lord Yalc?”

Yalc jumped up (knocking his chair over) “Why should you get to have all the fun!? To Dersten!”

“To Dersten!”

“To Kartzel!”

“To Dersten and Kartzel!”

“To Kartzel and Dersten!”

“To both of ‘em together!”

“Huh?”

“To Sarovin, the Lord’s Visor!”

“That’s AD visor, schtupid!”

“Him too!”

“To Yalc’s wife!”

“Yeah, to Niradam!”

This time Dersten spit his wine right out. “Now WAIT just a minute!” He brandished a large drumstick and began waggling it vigorously at Yalc, splattering gravy everywhere. “Just beclause yer the lord of Hawowell now doesin mean you can have my wife!”

“What makes ya think he hasn’t already?” someone said.

“Now JUST a minute!” Yalc jumped up (knocking his chair over yet again). “I am a man of under! There is nothing between me and your wife, Kartzel--Dersten--whoever is married to Niradam!”

Kartzel sleepily raised his head from the table, raising a hand, “Uh, that would be me!”

Dersten jumped up again, “Now WAIT a mimint! Everbody stop trying to claim my wife! You cand have her! She is MY wife! We are lawflully married and I am her hubband and she is my wife! Karzell is married to Releeeennn, Yalc is married to…to…whatsername….did I mention that Niradam is MY wife?!”

“Yes yes yes, don’t get your bifurcated leg coverings in a twist!” Legolas said in disgust.

All activity at the table ceased. Aragorn spoke for them all when he turned incredulously to the elf and said, simply, “What?!”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, we’re not making any pwogwess here!” Sarovin said, gesturing vigorously for more wine. “If he can come up with a statement like bliffergated leg--somethings, he’s way too sober! So, Master Elf, I’m sure you can sip with the best of them, but can you toss?”

“Ahhhhhh!” all the company scrambled to refill their goblets. Legolas was not about to be branded a coward, and he and Aragorn filled theirs right to the brim (neither managing to avoid spilling.)

Yalc splashed his too much and was obliged to drain the rest of it and refill it again. When he rose, the new Lord of Haloel found himself quite unsteady on his feet. He lofted his goblet and declared, “To good food!”

“To good company!”

“To women!”

“To women in haylofts!”

“Kartzel, behave yourself!”

“One can be married and still enjoy oneself!”

“Does he?”

“Have you seen his wife? I’d enjoy myself!”

“Now WAIT a minute--”

“Do NOT start that again!” Aragorn exclaimed, hurling a chunk of bread that bounced of Kartzel’s brow.

Kartzel looked up. “I think the ceiling’s falling in!”

“Pay attention!” Yalc ordered, banging the table. “Bottoms up!”

“Bottoms what?”

“That means drink the whole glass, you stupid wood elf!”

“Oh.” Legolas eyed the full goblet.

Aragorn grinned wickedly at him. “What’s wrong, friend, you can sip but not slug?”

“Go on, Alagion, down in one gulp!”

“In this I think Strider will match him!”

“We shall see!”

“On the count of three, friends!” Sarovin ordered, and all eyes were focused on elf and Ranger. “Onnnnne…twoooooo…” there was a long pause, “…was I saying something?”

“NOW!!!” several of the others yelled at once, and Legolas and Aragorn began gulping their wine in earnest. Eyes watering, faces flushed, they swilled while the men shouted encouragement.

As it happened, both elf and man lowered their goblets from their mouths at the exact same time (they also had equally-stained upper lips, giving each the appearance of a red moustache.) The Halorrim looked eagerly from one to the other. Aragorn’s eyes were still watering and he was trying in vain to control his coughs, but he nodded firmly when one of the others inquired after his health. “And what of you, Master Alagion?” asked Yalc.

Legolas, to Aragorn’s utter disgust, appeared barely phased. His eyes had stopped watering and he was not coughing. In fact, Aragorn was convinced that the elf hadn’t been affected at all until Legolas opened his mouth. “Well…” it came out as a squeak worthy of an irritated mouse.

The entire place erupted into guffaws as Legolas cursed furiously--then the elf decided the only cure was more wine, and the flagons went around again. Whatever satisfaction Aragorn had derived from Legolas’s embarrassing little reaction was lost by the fact that he was growing too dizzy to sit up straight (or what his loopy senses perceived as straight at the time.) To the eyes of the others, the younger Ranger was already slumped well down in his chair, and he had not noticed that his elbows had dropped below the tabletop.

“Slo, Mashter Owf,” Kartzel was saying, blinking rapidly. “Whaddaya s’pose would happen if we had a shooting contest in here ride now?”

Legolas regarded the drunk man solemnly for a moment, then threw his head back and burst into a peal of laughter. “Ai! I wouldn--I wouldna--I don’t recommend it, Master Karzel; we’d kill someone!” He raised one eyebrow and grinned at Aragorn. “On the other hand, I think Strider’s already dead!”

Forcing himself upright with an effort, Aragorn pointed a finger right into the elf’s face. “Nod quide yet! And I’ve outlashted plenty of peoples so far!” He gestured limply around the Hall, and it was true; more than half of the men were passed out on table and floor.

“Very true; you’re doing admirrarably well, Striper!” Yalc said, clapping the Ranger on the back. Then his face changed, and he observed, “Wish I could say the same for myself,” right before toppling back into his seat, dead to the world.

Legolas was practically shrieking with laughter. “Striper! He called you Striper! I’m gonna call you Striper!”

Aragorn folded his arms and scowled fiercely at the elf. “If you even thing aboud id I’m gonna box your ears!”

“Fah! You’re so drung you couldin find my ears!” Legolas said with a loud snort. He raised a hand with a flourish, “How many fingers am I holdin up?”

Without looking, Aragorn replied, “Seventeen!”

“Fourteen!” guessed Kartzel.

“One?” offered Dersten.

“Mrmph,” said Sarovin without lifting his head from where it rested on the crook of his elbow.

“Close enough,” Legolas said.

Just then there was a knock on the door. One of the heralds entered timidly. “Ah, my lords…” his eyes were incredulous as he took in the unconscious or nearly-there bodies scattered about the Great Hall. “Lady Enilosa is enquiring after her husband.”

The remaining survivors at the head table exchanged looks. “Well, THERE he is!” Aragorn said dramatically. Leaping upon the table, he declared with a great sweeping gesture, “My lords and ladies, I give you the Lord of Haloel!”

His feet on the table, his arms draped past the rests, his head lolling back with his mouth wide open, Yalc responded as though on cue.

He began to snore.

The servant nodded hastily and left even faster. For some reason, Aragorn decided that was worthy of another toast and jumped down, refilling goblets. “Long life and appleness!”

“Ear ear!” The goblets were downed with gusto, the remaining drinkers congratulating themselves at still being in the game.

Hic!

Everyone looked around. “Who was that?”

Hic!

“That you, Leg--ah, I mean Alagion?”

“Of course not! Elves don’t hiccup!” Hic!

Aragorn thumped the table and turned a level (or not) stare at Legolas. “I think that was you.”

Resting an elbow on the table and plunking his chin onto his hand, the elf replied, “Don’ be ridickilous, Striper--HIC!”

“Bwaahhaaaa!!” Dersten and Kartzel gleefully pointed. “It’s the owf! It’s the owf!”

“It is--hic!--not!”

“Here, lemme help!” Kartzel offered, and dealt Legolas a fierce slap on the back that nearly smashed the elf into the table. “Did thad work?”

“Ooooh, yes, thank you, Kartzel. Who needs unbroken ribs anyway?”

“Hah!” Aragorn jumped onto his chair. “Not so invinslible as you think you are, eh, Elf? Can’t even keep from gedding the higgups--whaaaa!!!” As top-heavy as he felt by then, the Ranger’s balance failed and he and his chair toppled over with a great crash.

With a yelp of alarm, Legolas, Kartzel, and Dersten scrambled over toppled chairs and drunken bodies to the pile of arms, legs, and chair that was Aragorn. “A Elbweth,” Legolas remarked. “That’s the end of him! Does that mean I win?”

“Not so fast, not so fast!” Kartzel exclaimed. “We’re still here!” He grabbed a half-full goblet and downed the whole thing in a few gulps. That proved one gulp too many for the wineman, and he simply keeled over on the spot.

Legolas and Dersten watched him gravely. With a heavy sigh, Dersten remarked, “That’s one against the owf. Dunno if I like those odds. So. Now what?”

The elf regarded the room full of drunk carcasses. “I sup--sup--guess it wouldn’ be very fidding for the ladies to find us this way in the morning.”

Dersten wrinkled his nose. “That means we’ve got to get everyone to bed! Ourselves!”

With a shrug, Legolas replied, “You got the glory, you gotta take the little heartaches that go with it.”

“Right!”

Most of the men--with sufficient prodding and cold water--roused enough to walk to their quarters on their own. Yalc had to be carried. A few buckets awoke Aragorn and Sarovin, and Legolas said, “Come on, you lazy mortals, up!”

“Is it morning already?” Sarovin grumbled.

Legolas laughed and turned to shake Aragorn awake. “On your feet, Dúnadan! You can’t lie here all night!”

“Be off!” the younger Ranger exclaimed, waving his arms drunkenly to shoo the elf away.

Grinning at Dersten, the prince began slapping Aragorn’s cheeks and did not desist until the man staggered to his feet. “Awake, you sotted mortal! Do not tell me you’re too feeble to make it to your chamber!”

Aragorn shoved him back. “Feeble, eh? I’ll show you--ooooh!” He staggered dangerously and both Legolas and Dersten were forced to grab him.

“Better get him out of here,” the Castellan advised, and slung Sarovin’s arm over his shoulder. Legolas did likewise with Aragorn, and so the four staggered, laughing hysterically, from the Great Hall. Halfway there, Aragorn began singing, and soon they formed a drunken quartet as they lurched into walls and tripped over their own (and each other’s) feet.

“Ah, here we are!” Dersten stumbled into a closed door and held Sarovin up with one arm while fumbling at the door handle with the other. At last the door opened, and the two men lurched inside with a crash.

“Put him down gently!” Legolas giggled.

There was a loud thud and a grunt in response, then Dersten stumbled back out, laughing. “I’ll w-w-wager he won’t stir until afternoon! Come!” The man grabbed Aragorn’s other arm. “Let’s get this one to bed!” They both laughed as Aragorn mumbled something unintelligible in response. “I must congratulate you, Master Owf! You outlasted both Rangers and most of our people!”

Legolas laughed out loud and nearly knocked them all into the wall. “Of COURSE I did! Wait, we’re here!”

It took the elf several tries to get the latch open, but at last the two hauled the Ranger into his quarters. They unceremoniously deposited Aragorn on his bed, then tiptoed (loudly) from the room. “Well,” Legolas observed, leaning heavily against the wall and grinning broadly, “Seems you and I were the only ones to survive the night!”

“You’ve proven your prowress, sir, make no mistake!” Dersten agreed, clapping the elf on the back so hard that he nearly knocked him over. “A good night to you!”

Legolas stumbled, giggling to himself, to his own chamber. “I win!” he crowed, and collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed.

***

The next day…

Aragorn did not stir until well after noon, and only then because the angle of the sun cast an agonizing beam right through the window onto his face. Heaving a groan, he rolled over to escape it--and landed on the floor. With a savage curse, he forced his eyes open. He felt as though the front of his skull had been beaten with a meat mallet, along with the brains within. His eyes felt gritty, his mouth felt like cotton, and no amount of water on his face could relieve the sensation that his entire head was made of sludge.

Forcing himself to wash and put on fresh clothes, the Ranger supposed he could not immure himself in his chamber all day (no matter how badly he desired to.) *Be a man, Estel, it is your own fault. Your bravado got the better of your good sense, trying to drink with an elf and winemen of Haloel.*

There was no escaping the amusement the others were probably going to have at his expense. So with a half-sigh, half-groan, the heir of Isildur shoved the door open and trudged into the corridor. He ducked to escape the light coming from an outer window, thinking, *I will show me face outside my room, but cave trolls could not drag me outside this building before the sun goes down!*

A door thudded open nearby and Aragorn winced at the noise. Out staggered Haloel’s newly-appointed Castellan, his garments rumpled, his hair unkempt, and his eyes almost as bloodshot as Aragorn’s. Seeing the Ranger, Dersten grumbled hoarsely, “This is a fine start to the government, wouldn’t you say?”

Aragorn started to nod, and had to grab the wall, for even that small motion set his head spinning and his stomach protesting violently. “Not just the government,” he croaked.

If Dersten looked sympathetic, Aragorn could not tell, for he was too busy trying to keep himself upright and his stomach from sloshing. But the other man did offer a steadying hand, and then said, “Ah, well, we’d best get the day started. At least all the others will be facing the music as well.”

“Thank the Valar for that,” Aragorn groaned.

As Dersten predicted, the Great Hall was full of late-rising Halorrim, all of whom were decidedly the worse for a night’s drinking. There was very little food being eaten--most of the men just stared at it as though it were the essence of evil. Aragorn and Dersten took their places at the head table with the equally-afflicted Sarovin, Kartzel, and Yalc. When a servant offered them a platter of sausage, the entire company turned green, and Yalc waved it hastily away. Burying his face in his arms, the young lord groaned, “I think that was my wife’s idea of a joke.”

Kartzel grunted in agreement, “Of all the foods I wouldn’t want after a night of drunken revelry, sausage is definitely the most nauseating.” He got a round of groans and curses from the others for even mentioning it by name.^

Sarovin roused himself enough to ask, “Where’s Alagion?”

Aragorn looked around before putting his head down again. “No idea. Perhaps even his elvish tolerance for wine could not handle last night. Ooohh…”

In spite of their misery, most of the men smiled. “Nice thought, that Haloel wine could exceed an elf’s capacity. Now THAT would make today far easier to endure!” proclaimed Dersten.

Just then the sound of singing floated through a window. Many of the men moaned and covered their ears, but Aragorn cursed savagely. Among the voices of many of the ladies of Haloel, he clearly discerned the voice of Legolas, raised in merry song. “Curse him and his elvish stamina! He’s been up for hours!”

The door of the Great Hall opened. Mockingly. And there stood Legolas, as bright and alert as ever, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement as he took in the sorry sight. “Ah, you’re all up at last!”

Then he had to close the door quickly to avoid being pelted by a rain of rolls, sausages, and fruit thrown by spiteful and hung-over men. Through the nearly-closed door, a disgustingly smug elvish voice declared, “Being a winner, I give you all a good morrow, gentlemen!” The men all cursed as the sound of laughter faded down the hall.

“A plague on that pointy-eared tree squirrel!” someone muttered. All the others just voiced their agreement by groaning.

***

By evening, the men of Haloel had recovered sufficiently to get down to business, though most of them were still a little foggy-headed. All the ladies had been greatly amused when Legolas had risen that morning, appearing none the worse for wear while the rest of the men had yet to budge. Actually, in all fairness, Legolas could not claim to have been completely unaffected. He’d slept far later than usual; on a normal day, the elf would have been up at dawn. And for the first half of the day at least, he had to admit that he’d felt a little…off.

Still, he had been nowhere near as incapacitated as the mortals, and had enjoyed more than his share of laughs at their expense when they had finally dragged their carcasses from bed. *I warned them they would regret it today if they tried to out-drink me!*

At the moment, they were seated in the Great Hall where Lord Yalc was preparing to pronounce his judgement on the loyalist soldiers who had been taken prisoner in the battle. Yalc too looked much-improved since Legolas had seen him last, and sat straight and dignified in the seat of Haloel.

Beside Legolas, the heir of Isildur also seemed somewhat more in the land of the living, though he kept glaring at the prince--who delighted in smiling right back at him. “You’re lucky the rest of us were in no condition to fight, or you’d be dead by now,” Aragorn growled.

Casting wide, innocent eyes at the Ranger, Legolas protested, “I did warn you all, did I not? I warned you that none of you could meet my capacity!”

“One day I’ll see you in this state, and laugh at your suffering!”^

“Hah! Do not excite anticipation, Dunadan. There is not a mortal on the face of the earth who could drink me under the table!”^

A bell rang, signaling Lord Yalc’s readiness to begin. Only about thirty of Fompran’s soldier’s had been taken alive; the rest were dead or fled. Under the watchful gaze of Castellan Dersten, the guards led the prisoners before Lord Yalc. The young lord regarded them, his brown eyes thoughtful. “The families of the men lost to your forces think I should execute you all. For those deaths, the lost homes and livelihoods Haloel suffered, I would be well within my rights to do it.”

The soldiers exchanged anxious glances. Legolas, Aragorn, and the Halorrim observed Yalc as he deliberated their fate. Yalc’s eyes briefly met Legolas’s, and the elf smiled ever so slightly. He suspected he knew what the Lord of Haloel’s decision would be.

The young man spoke again. “All the same, I know you were acting under the orders of your superiors. They may have been highly unjust orders, but the decisions were theirs, not yours.” Gazing upon each of the men in turn, he continued, “So I will not order your deaths. I will not begin my rule here as the previous lord ended it: with bloodshed. Therefore the sentence of death is commuted. But,” his eyes narrowed, “nor will I permit the troubles you brought upon our people to go unpunished.”

The soldiers looked at each other. Yalc rose and proclaimed, “Haloel and her people are beginning a new life. But you shall not be a part of it. You shall all be escorted separately, with rations and gear, beyond our borders, and released. Any who attempt to return to Haloel or trouble our people shall receive the death sentence. If you are wise, you shall seek refuge elsewhere.” Nodding to Dersten, the lord of Haloel ordered, “Take them away. See that they are out of Haloel before sundown.”

Legolas and Aragorn exchanged a grin. The Halorrim had chosen well. After the soldiers had been removed, Dersten ordered, “Bring out the last prisoner!”

From outside the door, nasal cries of “Get your hands off me, peasants!” could be heard. Legolas covered his mouth to hide his laughter. The doors opened, and three guards hauled the loudly-protesting ex-lord Fompran into the Great Hall. When they halted him before Lord Yalc, the fat man cried, “Release me at once! I am the rightful Lord of Haloel, and I demand--”

“Be silent, Fompran, or I shall order you gagged!” Yalc snapped. One of the guards cuffed Fompran for good measure. Rising, Yalc gazed at the former lord with undisguised contempt. “You may have been ruler of Haloel by birthright, but your abuse of your power showed you unfit for the position.”

His face almost purple, Fompran screeched, “Who are you to question my methods, farmer?!”

One of the guards moved to strike him, but Yalc motioned the man back. Legolas noted with interest how automatically the guard obeyed the new lord. Yalc leaned across the table and said in a steely voice, “I was a citizen of Haloel then, entitled to have my voice heard. But you would not hear us. Now I am Lord of Haloel, and I shall decide what punishment those ‘methods’ of yours merit.”

“You’ve no right to judge--mmph!” this time the threat of gagging Fompran was carried out.

Calmly, Yalc said, “The wishes and needs of your people went unheard, Fompran. But I shall not make that mistake. Now your fate is in their hands.” Turning his gaze to the assembled Halorrim, the Lord announced, “This man’s decisions led to much suffering for all of you. In this case, I shall carry out whatever sentence you desire. If you seek his death, you shall have it. If you call for mercy, he shall have it. Take him back to his cell while his people decide his fate.” Squirming and grunting, Fompran was hauled out.

Yalc sat down and beckoned for the Halorrim to speak. One woman rose to speak first. “My husband is dead because of that man. An eye for an eye, I say, execute him!”

“Death’s too good for him!”

“What other punishment is there?”

“Lock him up forever!”

“I don’t want him in Haloel! And I sure don’t want us to have to feed him!”

“We could banish him, too.”

“Ha! I’d like to see him try to walk to another kingdom!”

A young man rose and said, “Lord Yalc is right; we should not begin our new life by shedding blood. Exile would be good enough for him.”

“Think he’d go?”

“Fompran’s a coward; he’d take any sentence if death was the only alternative.”

“Shall we vote on it then, Lord Yalc?”

The Lord inclined his head. “If that is how you wish to settle the matter, we shall have a show of hands. What shall the choices be?”

“Exile or death!” Judging by the cries of agreement, those seemed to be the only two options any wished to consider.

Yalc nodded. “Very well. Sarovin, if you would tally the score? The vote shall be for exile, or for death, or neither, if you choose not to participate at all.” The people nodded in turn. “All those who desire a sentence of death for Fompran, raise your hands.”

A few dozen hands went up and were duly counted by Sarovin. “All those who wish a sentence of exile, raise your hands.” This time there was a clear majority. Legolas and Aragorn noticed with interest that there seemed little rancor from those who had voted for the harsher punishment. Yalc maintained a neutral expression, but Legolas suspected he was much more at ease with this decision. “Bring in the prisoner, Dersten.”

Fompran was glaring daggers around him when the guards dragged him back in. Yalc stood up. “Your people have pronounced sentence, Fompran. You are to be exiled. Perhaps it is more merciful than you deserve, but such is their will. You shall be escorted beyond our lands, and released, to make your way wherever you choose, but never return here again.”

Folding his arms pompously, Fompran snarled, “And who’s going to stop me.”

“I am!” snapped Dersten, drawing his sword and resting the tip below the man’s chin.

Fompran gulped. Yalc smiled slightly. “The choice is entirely yours, Fompran. Exile, or death.”

Fompran’s eyes darted from Yalc to Dersten to Sarovin to the rest of the Halorrim. Even the most dense person could see that the threat was not made idly. The fat man gulped again, which everyone correctly took to mean he had chosen exile. Lord Yalc smiled again. “Dersten, escort our former lord out of our lands.”

“With pleasure, my lord!” Fompran was hustled out amid the gleeful jeers of his former subjects.

***

A week or two later…

Now came a parting much less looked forward to by the Halorrim. Yalc, Dersten, and Sarovin saw to it that Legolas and Aragorn had all the provisions and gear they would need, but on the day they were to depart, the leaders of Haloel made one last appeal to the travelers to change their minds.

In the privacy of Yalc’s study, the friends talked. “I had accepted that Master Legolas would have to leave us in time,” Yalc said. “But surely you might tarry a little longer,” he addressed Aragorn. “Haloel would greatly benefit from your leadership, my lord.”

Aragorn was obviously discomfited by Yalc and Dersten’s knowledge of his true identity. “I’m but an heir in exile, friend, I hardly rate that title.”

Yalc sighed inwardly, wishing he could think of a way to persuade the son of Arathorn to stay. The young lord of Haloel felt equally unprepared for the government of his people, but when called by them, he had not refused. Surely the rightful king of Gondor would feel some sense of duty during these uncertain times. Why then did he wander the wild when his people--all of them--needed him?

Sarovin was less adamant than the other two, but he said carefully, “There is much you could teach these people, Aragorn.”

His tone regretful, but firm, the Ranger replied, “Perhaps, or perhaps not so much as they would like to think. To build a strong province under its own rule, you are more than capable, Yalc. You know your people’s craft and trade, and you have their trust and faith. You do not need my help.”

Legolas remained quiet through much of the conversation, but listened with thoughtful gray eyes. Yalc wondered (as always) what was going on in that elf’s head. So many times, the young man had come across the prince standing alone upon the wall, his face turned eastward. Yet among company, Legolas’s bright eyes betrayed little of his mind. When Sarovin had learned of “Alagion’s” true identity, the ex-Ranger had laughed out loud, saying, “Now that explains a great many things!”

To Yalc, it only added to the mystery. Were all elves so inscrutable? Or was this Prince Legolas somehow different from others of his race? *I suppose until I have met another elf, it shall remain a mystery.*

But as for the other problem, no amount of persuading could convince Aragorn to remain in Haloel. After noon, the Ranger brought the discussion to a close. “I know you wish to argue further, my friends, but the road is long, and I should like to make a start before sunset.”

Exchanging resigned glances, Yalc, Dersten, and Sarovin rose. “Then we wish you a safe journey, Aragorn and Legolas,” said Yalc. “You have been true friends to us all. Come, we shall see you to the gates.”

It seemed that all of Haloel turned out to see their foreign heroes off. At the gates, the elf and Ranger clasped arms with Yalc, Dersten, Kartzel, and Sarovin in turn, then mounted their horses. “Farewell, Strider and Alagion!” Yalc declared (with a barely-perceptible wink.) “You shall always be welcome in Haloel!”

Waving to the Lord of Haloel, his council, and his cheering people, Aragorn and Legolas rode out of the castle gates and into the hills. The Halorrim watched until the two travelers were out of sight. “I hope they come back some day,” Kartzel said.

Yalc smiled. “Whether they come here again or no, somehow I don’t think that’s the last time we’ll be hearing of that particular elf and Ranger.”

***

The elf and Ranger in question rode until they were close to Haloel’s northern border, where the rolling hills began changing to the steeper foothills of the Misty Mountains. There they made camp upon an open hilltop as the sun set. Bringing some food to their campfire, Aragorn seated himself beside Legolas. “So, Master Elf, what do you intend to do now?”

“Do?” Legolas looked at the Ranger in confusion.

Aragorn grinned, “Well, you are hardly in my debt anymore. You are free to return home if you wish.”

The elf blinked, then chuckled. He had obviously become so used to being in Aragorn’s company that he had given the matter of his destination beyond Haloel little thought. A flicker of indecision--and doubt--showed in the prince’s bright eyes. Turning his gaze to the dark plains that stretched eastward beyond the hills, Legolas asked, “What do you intend to do?”

*Still being evasive--or perhaps you truly don’t know.* “I am returning home, to Rivendell. It has been some time since I have seen my father and brothers. I’ve no doubt you are welcome in the House of Elrond,” he added on impulse. *Since the longer we travel together, the better my chance of learning what drove you from Mirkwood, my friend.*

It pleased--but did not surprise--the Ranger when Legolas looked back at him and said, “I had no particular destination in mind, and I should be glad to see Imladris again.” With a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, the elf added, “So if you can bear to travel with me a little longer, I will accompany you.”

Aragorn laughed. “I will endure it somehow.” They both chuckled. Handing Legolas his share of meat, bread, and fruit for their dinner, Aragorn asked, “Are you well acquainted with my fa--that is, Lord Elrond?”

Legolas nodded. “I have often seen him on his visits to Mirkwood, and when I was last in Imladris.” Something in the elf’s tone told Aragorn that the prince was speaking to himself as well as his companion when Legolas murmured, “I should be glad to meet Lord Elrond again.”

 

*****  



	23. The Counsel of Elrond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

Legolas soon learned that Aragorn’s invitation to continue traveling together had an ulterior motive. “The finest warriors in Imladris have taught me to fight, and you bested me with ease. I should like to learn the techniques of the warriors of Mirkwood.”

They were in no great hurry, so often they made camp before sundown and spent an hour or two at weapons practice. “Glorfindel taught you the sword, did he not?” Legolas asked after an especially rough bout (in which Aragorn spent most of his time being knocked down and disarmed.)

Rubbing a bruised shoulder, the Ranger nodded. “He did. Elladan and Elrohir as well, but they prefer the bow.”

“That explains it. Glorfindel likes to make a stand, whether you are an army or a lone fighter.”

“I would not have considered that a flaw, or at least not until now,” Aragorn remarked wryly.

Legolas smiled. “Most often it is not, especially against men. You would do well against most mortal foes, for the average swordsman advances head-on. In Mirkwood, we are taught differently. We are taught to move.”

“I move!” Aragorn protested.

“Not enough. Swift feet can be as great an advantage as strong arms. Come,” the elf tossed down his sword and beckoned to the man. “Use you hands only, and move!” Aragorn then found himself frantically trying to parry and dodge fist blows from Legolas. The elf almost seemed to flit around him, landing slightly pulled punches to show how easily he could penetrate the Ranger’s defenses. Legolas laughed as Aragorn grunted in his effort to hold his elven opponent off. “Move, human! Treat it as a dance!”

Slowing down a bit, Legolas gave the man more room to adjust to the new method. Sensing Aragorn growing more accustomed to moving his feet, he picked up the pace, only to knock the man flat again. Stifling another laugh, the prince stopped. “Let us try something else. Do not fight. Simply try to face me at all times. You must be able to turn in enough time to block an attack.”

Aragorn grimaced, “I wonder if trying this technique while lacking the speed of an elf is hopeless.”

“I think not,” replied Legolas. “I suspect there are few fighting methods you could not master, Aragorn. Come, let us begin at the beginning.”

Bolstered by the encouragement, Aragorn returned to the game of simply trying to move as quickly as Legolas. The wood elf was so quick that he seemed almost to disappear and reappear at first, but gradually, the Ranger found himself anticipating the maneuvers. “That is better. Shall we spar again?” Legolas offered.

“Bare hands,” said Aragorn, wiping his brow. “So I may concentrate still on the movements.”

“As you wish. Guard!” Legolas moved in, ducking and dodging around the Ranger in an effort to pass his defenses. But Aragorn was definitely improving, and after several minutes, they both noted that the elf was landing far fewer hits. “Now attack! Try to move as I do!”

Aragorn came at him rapidly, dodging from side to side and ducking the elf’s counter-attacks as he tried to outmaneuver Legolas. The elf spun, moving always to keep his eyes on his opponent or parrying on instinct. The human was certainly picking up elvish skill faster than one would expect though he was still no match for L--

POW!!! A fist slipped past the elf’s defending arm and connected with Legolas’s jaw. The next thing he knew, Legolas found himself sitting rather stupefied on the ground, with stars dancing in his vision. For a moment, he could not hear for the ringing in his ears, then he heard a strangled sound. Shaking his head hard, he looked up to see the Ranger standing over him, biting his lip to keep from laughing. “I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

Mustering a rather painful (and sheepish) grin, Legolas answered, “I am hardly in a position to disagree.”

***

After another week of traveling, Legolas no longer had to handicap himself to give Aragorn an even chance. The Ranger was elated the first time he bested the elven warrior at swords--still more when subsequent victories prevented Legolas from shrugging it off as luck. But all in all, Legolas accepted defeats with surprisingly good grace, far more than even some Imladris elves. This was odd, considering what Aragorn knew of the wood elves’ reputation for intense pride. On one such occasion, he took the opportunity to comment on it, “You accept defeat unusually well, Master Elf.”

Pausing from rubbing a bruised collarbone, Legolas blinked at him. “I hope so. Did you expect me to take it with ill grace?”

Aragorn laughed, raising his hands. “Nay, but I do confess most of your kindred tend to be affronted at being beaten by a mere mortal.”

Legolas laughed in turn, nodding his agreement. “Very likely, I admit. But you had skill to spare when we first met, and you have learned my ways well; I can have no cause to reproach you for using them.”

“No belief that the student shall not defeat the master?” Aragorn jested.

A shadow crossed the elf’s bright eyes, so swiftly that Aragorn almost wondered if he had imagined it. But Legolas’s words said otherwise, and they puzzled the Ranger. “I am no master.” Then the twinkle was back, and Legolas grinned at him, “Nor are you any ‘mere’ mortal Ranger, heir of Isildur.”

“I am but a mere Ranger,” Aragorn told him. “Do not try to make me more than I am.”

The elf’s eyes turned serious. “All Middle Earth is imperiled by the Enemy’s return to power, and the people of Gondor are scattered, leaderless. If Sauron should begin moving, they will be helpless to defend themselves. How long do you mean to hide away in exile? Do you truly fear facing who you are?”

It came to Aragorn then, the chance to unravel some of the mystery of Legolas. He said nothing, merely leveled a silent, searching stare at the elf. Legolas had been whetting one of his knives, but his gray eyes slowly lifted to meet the man’s. They watched each other’s faces for a moment, one aided by elvish perceptions, the other aided by long association with elves. Then Legolas lowered his gaze again, as though he had just lost a battle between them. When he spoke, his tone was soft and resigned. “You are thinking…that before I advise others of their troubles, I should first look to my own.”

The elf was exactly right. Aragorn smiled slightly, and said quietly, “I knew from our first meeting that you carried many secrets, my friend. I cannot help my curiosity. You are a prince of Mirkwood, yet you travel by yourself. All your looks say that you long for home, but you do not return. It is a rare and sad thing, an elf alone.” Not taking his gaze from Legolas’s face, he said earnestly, “We have fought together and become friends, in spite of all that our heritage might place in the way. Do you still distrust me so?”

The young elf’s eyes were dark with inner conflict as he stared at the campfire. *And I thought Lórien elves were closemouthed!* thought Aragorn, but he remained silent, waiting. At last, Legolas sighed softly and murmured, “I am not sure that I would be welcomed home if I returned.” His eyes flicked to Aragorn’s briefly, as though unsure of how much to reveal to his companion, friend or no. But then he evidently figured that Aragorn was likely to deduce anything he did not say. “You once asked me if I was widely traveled in Middle Earth. I am not.”

“No?” The revelation did not surprise Aragorn, but he did not allow his tone to show it, nor did he act too surprised. Elves, particularly wood elves, did not reveal the secrets of their hearts very easily. One wrong word would spook Legolas into closing up again.

Legolas shook his head, his eyes still downcast and distant. “I am the youngest son of Thranduil, as you probably have guessed,” he added with a hint of dry humor. “I have only just reached the Warrior’s Coming of Age.”

Aragorn had known this; the elves of Imladris still talked of Legolas’s performance at the Great Gathering Trial thirty-five years ago. Legolas went on, “As a novice, I seldom journeyed far from my father’s halls. He…” the elf hesitated, his eyes smoldering. Then he sighed and continued, “Three of my elder siblings fell in battle before my birth. It is that fate that my father…sought to spare me when he attempted to delay my departure with the war parties.”

The Ranger listened, his heart full. His own coming of age had been the time when Elrond had bestowed upon him the knowledge and rights of his heritage. He had also met Arwen that same day. Though life had hardly been easy since he had left Rivendell, the memories of his coming of age were joyous ones. That for his friend adulthood had brought only grief saddened Aragorn. “What did you do?”

“I left without the king’s permission. Our party was gone for more than thirty years, and--many things transpired abroad and at home. When I returned, we were both changed.” With a faint grimace, Legolas added, “Neither for the better. I had barely been back six weeks before we quarreled again, and I left.” Raising his eyes to meet Aragorn’s, the elf confessed, “We parted on…very ill words. I know not if he wishes me back, and fear to find out.” Then he smiled wryly, “It was the night I departed that you found me.”

*That explains how you managed to run straight into a spider nest.* Aloud, Aragorn asked him, “What do you hope to find in Imladris?”

The humor returned to Legolas’s eyes, “You ask a question to which you already know the answer, son of Arathorn. I know Lord Glorfindel well, and Lord Elrond is one of the wisest elves I have ever encountered.”

“He will find some way to help you solve these troubles,” Aragorn told him sincerely. His faith in his foster-father was great. What Legolas faced could not be fought with sword or even magic, but if anyone could help him, Elrond could.

Aragorn had seen many elves suffering and lost under shadow of sorrow, but never one so young as this. Even if Legolas had not been willing to tell his story, Aragorn could probably have guessed. The elf bore weapons with the skill of much practice, but his reaction to the people and events of the past months bespoke his naïveté. At times, he betrayed an air of utter bewilderment, as one for whom the world was changing too swiftly to make sense. It grieved the Ranger. An ordinary man might view look at Legolas and see an unearthly, dangerous elf warrior, but in Aragorn’s eyes, for all his centuries of life and handling of weapons, the youngest prince of Mirkwood had retained a strange innocence. Perhaps that was from where his troubles truly arose. One such as Legolas would naturally view the world and its people very differently from an elf like Thranduil of Mirkwood.

***

Six days later, Lord Elrond and Glorfindel happened to be visiting Elladan and Elrohir on watch near the ford of the Bruinen when they saw two riders approaching through the trees. “Who is it?” Glorfindel asked.

Elladan narrowed his eyes, “I cannot tell for the trees, but they come openly. Friends, I would say.” The four waited at the guard post until the two appeared on the banks of the river.

“It’s Estel!” Elrohir cried with delight, and leapt from the post, running at full speed toward the river. Elladan was only a step behind him. “Estel is home!”

Elrond and Glorfindel, though no less glad to see the Lord of Rivendell’s foster-son, remained where they were and identified Aragorn’s companion. “It’s Legolas,” Glorfindel said quietly.

Lord Elrond sighed, “Thank the Valar. After nearly six months with no news, I had begun to worry. I wonder when he fell in with Estel.”

“I know not, but it would explain why we could find no trace of him. Young Aragorn has a knack for disappearing into thin air.”

As the elven lords watched, Elladan and Elrohir sprinted across the riverbank, not even slowing when they plunged in and splashed towards their brother. Aragorn sprang from his horse’s back and sloshed to meet them, leaping into their arms. Legolas also jumped down but stood where he was, watching the sibling reunion with an amused grin. Elrohir tackled Aragorn away from Elladan and dunked him bodily into the water, apparently berating him for being so long away from home. Elladan joined in, and the human was soon shouting to Legolas for aid, while the young warrior laughed and replied that he knew better than to interfere with brotherly brawls. That prompted both twins to release Aragorn and launch themselves at Legolas, who fled for his life and nearly made it to the bank before Elladan caught him and hauled him into the water.

“That is enough, boys, you are frightening the horses!” Glorfindel called with a laugh.

Arm-in-arm, laughing, and thoroughly soaked, the four retrieved Aragorn and Legolas’s mounts and returned to dry ground. Elrond happily embraced his foster-son. “Welcome home, my son,” the Lord of Imladris said. “We have missed you.”

As they walked back toward Rivendell, Glorfindel surreptitiously regarded Legolas, walking with Aragorn and the twins. No sooner had Glorfindel and Faron returned to Imladris from Mirkwood than word had come that Legolas had left after a violent quarrel with King Thranduil. Faron had been stricken, and wished to ride at once in search of his friend, but Glorfindel had not permitted it. “If Legolas wishes your counsel, Faron, he will come here,” the Imladris captain had said. “But if he does not, there is no point in searching, for Legolas knows all too well how to avoid what he does not wish to face.”

Months had passed, with no word or sign of Legolas in any of the elven realms. Glorfindel and Elrond had become concerned, fearing that the young prince, reckless with anger, might have gotten into trouble. But where to look for him? And what to do if they found him? If there was one art Legolas had perfected, it was evasion. It would be difficult to convince him to talk of anything he did not wish to. Still, the fact that he was here…it seemed a good sign. *He knows I am here, and that I will have words for him,* thought Glorfindel. *If he truly did not wish advice, he would have stayed away from Rivendell. Perhaps this is a turning point.*

***

After returning to the House of Elrond and putting on some dry clothes, Elrohir met Legolas coming outside, also having dried off. “How have you been, Elrohir? It has been too long,” said Legolas.

“Indeed it has,” agreed Elrohir, slapping the younger elf affectionately on the back. “We are all well in Imladris. My sister is in Lothlórien now, and our scouts have had less trouble with orcs in recent months.”

“Really?” Legolas’s eyes widened appreciatively. “What caused that good fortune?”

Elrohir shrugged, “The Battle of the Five Armies killed many of the Misty Mountain orcs. Those who remained foolishly committed themselves to attacking Lórien, and you know how many of those survived. If nowhere else, the Misty Mountains seem to have fewer foul creatures plaguing them.”

“That is a comfort, one I would gladly see in other places as well,” said Legolas. “Where is Faron?” he looked about as though expecting his friend to appear. “Did he not hear I had come?”

The younger son of Elrond shook his head regretfully, “Faron is abroad on a hunt. We expect the party back in ten days.”

“Oh,” replied Legolas, looking somewhat disappointed. Still, ten days was not so long.

Watching his friend, Elrohir asked, “How are things with you?”

With a little chuckle, Legolas answered, “You needn’t dissemble, my friend; you know perfectly well how things have been with me.”

The older elf smiled wryly, “I confess it; we have had many tidings of recent events in Mirkwood. But knowing only what happened does not tell me how you yourself are.”

Legolas looked out at one of Rivendell’s many waterfalls. In a soft voice, he admitted, “I have been better.” Then he looked back at Elrohir and smiled, “All the same, I would have been far worse but for Aragorn.”

Elrohir grinned, “I am perishing with curiosity on that score. However did you two stumble across each other? We expected him back months ago. What have you been up to?”

Laughing, Legolas raised his hands defensively, “It was not I who waylaid him. Did he not tell you?”

“Something about a labor dispute in Haloel and drunken soldiers. It’s true, then? Ha! As if Estel was not good enough at getting into trouble on his own. How did you two get mixed up in that?”

“It is a VERY long story!”

***

Mirkwood, that night…

Limloeth leaned against the side of the bridge over the Forest River, tossing sticks into the water and watching to see which one came out on the other side of the bridge first. Legolas and Tathar had invented the game when they were little, calling it--for some never-determined reason-- “Poo Sticks.” But every child in Mirkwood had learnt to play it, and Limloeth occasionally saw adult elves giving in to the temptation.

She was waiting for her father. King Thranduil had gone out with several foresters to investigate a blight spreading in the southern edges of the realm. To get back to his chamber, he would have to cross the bridge. To cross the bridge, he would have to pass her. After the disastrous dinnertime attempt at persuading the king to talk about Legolas, Limloeth and Berensul had been thoroughly discouraged. They had talked on the balcony for a long time. “If you want to just give up and go back to Lothlórien, Lim, I do not blame you,” her brother had said.

The thought had certainly been an appealing one. Orthelian had not been home a few months before word reached them of Legolas’s disappearance. Limloeth had left almost at once to try and wring some sense into her father and little brother’s heads. But Thranduil was proving to be the only elf in Middle Earth more stubborn than Legolas. And his temperament had only worsened over recent years. It was unlikely that anything Limloeth said would make him see reason, thus little point in staying, yet…

For some strange reason, she had begun to laugh. “Nay, brother, I will not leave just because Father is being his usual difficult self. One member of this family does enough running away for all of us.”

So now she found herself lying in wait for the king. And if he put her off tonight, she would corner him again. And again. And again. Until he heard her.

*You and Legolas have enough pride and stubbornness between you to stare down Sauron, Father dear,* Limloeth thought. *But now I shall practice a little stubbornness of my own, and I shall wear you down until this conflict is resolved. There is too much at stake for you two to continue quarreling.*

Through the rippling water danced the reflected stars. Limloeth closed her eyes. The reflection of the stars reminded her of the Mirror of Galadriel just before it had shown her what the future held for Middle Earth. And what it held for Legolas. *Until I heard what had passed between Legolas and Father, I wondered why the Lady Galadriel showed those horrors to me. Curse their foolish pride! They cannot imagine what would be lost if Legolas does not play his part in the future!*

She knew not specifically how the rift between king and prince would prevent Legolas from aiding in the coming battle against evil, but it was enough for her that the Lady Galadriel had said that it would. Ever since she had seen the Mirror, a sense of utter dread had filled Limloeth whenever she saw or thought of her youngest brother. It was a hideous paradox, where Legolas would lose either way. If there was not a peace between him and the king, he would not be able to fight in the coming war, and all would come to darkness. But if the feud was resolved, and Legolas did take on the role Galadriel said he must…

*If my little brother had not an essential part, I should be tempted to lock him in a closet until it is over. Ai, Legolas! What horror you shall face! Would that there was another way! So long I shall live in fear for you!* Trying to distract her troubled mind, she tossed two more sticks into the river, gazing absently into the rippling starlight without bothering to chase them.

“The elm stick won.”

Limloeth started, and then looked over at King Thranduil, who was standing at the foot of the ridge and watching the sticks float by. His face was calm, but unreadable. What to say, what to say… “Usually the beech wood floats faster.”

“Interesting.” They leaned side-by-side over the stone railing. Thranduil picked up a twig from Limloeth’s collection and held it over the water, raising his eyebrows at her expectantly. Limloeth took one of her own, and simultaneously they dropped the sticks into the stream. Looking over the other side of the bridge, Limloeth’s floated through first. “Yours wins.”

“Candrochon used to accuse Legolas of cheating,” Limloeth said blandly, without taking her eyes of the twigs as they vanished down the dark river.

There was a long, silent pause. Limloeth held her breath, waiting for Thranduil’s answer. Finally, “How does one cheat at Poo Sticks?”

It was all she could do not to gasp with relief. “I haven’t the faintest idea. But Legolas was uncommonly good at it.”

“He and Tathar invented it. I suppose it is not surprising.”

“I should teach it to Silivren.”

“That is a fine idea.” There was another pause. “It used to keep Legolas and his friends amused for hours.”

“I remember well. If they were not on the bridge, we knew they were getting into trouble.” She smiled at the reflections in the water.

A very quiet and wrenchingly sad chuckle came from the king. Then he murmured, “I used to worry about them falling in.”

“I am surprised none of them did.”

“At least none that we know of.”

“We would have heard. Those four imps never could keep secrets.”

“True.” He gave a slow intake of breath. “Legolas least of all.”

Thranduil was silent again. Limloeth still kept her eyes on the stars in the water. A moment later, his hand found hers. She turned her face and met his eyes. The elven king squeezed his daughter’s hand. “I’ve a busy day tomorrow. I must retire.”

Limloeth kissed his cheek. “Good night, Father.”

Then she let him go.

***

King Thranduil could not sleep. At last, he went to his study and pulled out a scroll. Feeling a great tension inside, he composed a message.

“‘To my son Legolas. I…hope that this letter finds you safe and well. It is the third of November. The last war parties have returned, and if you had not heard, you will be pleased to know that no warriors fell in battle this autumn from any of the elven realms.

“‘Your niece grows more inquisitive and endearing with each passing day. She begs to be taught to ride, even though she is not yet tall enough to sit a horse. But your brother has promised to teach her as soon as she grows enough for it. Limloeth arrived from Lothlórien a few weeks ago, and spends much of her time keeping Silivren amused.

“‘I…‘I hope that you are well’--nay, I said that already. ‘You have been long away from Mirkwood’…too accusatory.” Thranduil sighed, resting his forehead in his hands. After a moment, he took up his pen again. He knew what he wished to say, why beat about it so much? “‘I wish’…nay, ‘I ask…that you come home. Wherever you are when this letter reaches you, I pray that your travels are safe. Until we meet again.

Your Father.’”

With a still-deeper sigh, he rewrote the letter on several other scrolls. Then he wrote a message to each of the lords of the other elven realms, requesting that they deliver the letter to his son if he should pass through. Fixing his seal upon them, he set them with his other messages, to be sent from Mirkwood at first light. Then he returned to his chamber.

That night, for the first time in months, no foul dreams disturbed his sleep.

***

Imladris, the next day…

Legolas leaned against a rail, watching Aragorn and Elladan sparring with swords in a courtyard just below him. It was easy to tell that Aragorn had been raised with and trained by the sons of Elrond. They anticipated each other’s moves, reacting to strokes that had not yet been delivered. On the other hand, Aragorn had learnt a few new tricks, and Elladan was finding out the hard way. As they attacked and parried, swung and dodged, Aragorn suddenly ducked under Elladan’s sword, came up behind him, and delivered a disarming blow to his foster-brother’s sword arm. Before the elf could react, the man’s sword blade was resting lightly against his neck.

“Never thought I’d see the day when I could best you that well,” the Ranger said gleefully.

His lips pursed in mock-anger, Elladan said, “You seem to have picked up a few wood elf tricks--all right, Legolas, where are you?!”

Bursting into laughter, Legolas waved jauntily at the elven warrior from where he stood, then ducked to escape a thrown rock. “Poor Elladan seems to be losing his touch if he can be beaten so well by a mere mortal--ow!” (That time, Elladan had not missed.)

Aragorn was now doing a mocking imitation behind his foster-brother’s back as Elladan was busy shaking his fist at Legolas. Then the older elf caught on, whirled around, and tackled Aragorn to the ground, while Legolas shouted taunts at them. Both sprang to their feet and charged the wood elf, who took off over the nearest bridge.

After successfully evading his pursuers (both Elladan and Aragorn against him were NOT fair odds!) Legolas wandered aimlessly through Rivendell. The village itself seemed to give him more peace of mind than he had found in a long while. The autumn breeze coming from the mountains carried a brisk but pleasant chill, though the sun was noon high. Still, *I wish Faron had been here.* Plucking a fat apple from a laden tree, he got it halfway to his mouth before he remembered. *I wish Tathar were here.* But he ate the apple.

“One can avoid people, but not memories.”

Startled, Legolas turned to see Lord Elrond standing under an archway entering the House. The prince bowed, and Elrond smiled. For some reason, knowing that Aragorn was Elrond’s foster-son made the elven lord less intimidating. Legolas stood where he was as Elrond came to join him on the stone terrace overlooking the canyon. “Even after thirty-five years, the hardest memories have faded little, have they, Legolas?”

Finding it hard to meet the elven lord’s eyes, Legolas murmured, “No, my lord. They’ve not faded at all.”

Lord Elrond nodded sadly, “They cannot be avoided, though that does not stop us from trying. Nor can we avoid our troubles forever.”

The words might have seemed vague to an outside observer, but to Legolas, they struck with deadly accuracy, and raked up a mass of painful thoughts he had tried for months to repress. Of course, Lord Elrond knew what had happened in Mirkwood; it went without saying. Now the Lord of Imladris stood watching the younger elf with eyes that seemed to pierce all Legolas’s pretenses. It went against the son of Thranduil’s nature to confide in strangers, which Elrond essentially was. It had been hard enough to let his guard down with Aragorn (indeed, it had astonished Legolas even as he had done it!)

But whatever Aragorn had done to disarm Legolas, he had probably learnt from his foster-father, for Legolas now found himself baring his thoughts yet again. “I worry that returning to Mirkwood might only make matters worse. My father is unlikely to forgive the manner of our parting easily.”

“Would you?” the elven lord asked.

Legolas looked away. “My own words to him were unkind and out of place. I do not know if I can return after leaving in such a manner. If I should return…”

“Then it is yourself you doubt, not his willingness to see you.”

“No,” Legolas said hastily. “I hesitate to return because I…” he trailed off, confused. Why was he so unwilling to go back? The quarrel with Thranduil was unlikely to be solved out here, the only way to get anywhere at all was to go home and face the king. So why…Lord Elrond’s hand rested lightly upon his shoulder. In a near-whisper, Legolas confessed, “I am afraid.” Then he winced inwardly and bowed his head in shame, unable to believe he had just admitted such a thing to the Lord of Imladris. He could never admit such a thing to his father.

Elrond’s quiet laughter startled him into looking up again. Smiling at Legolas, the older elf asked, “Do you truly think fear is a shameful thing, young warrior? It is an emotion like any other, and cannot be denied, or we shall never be able to overcome it. Trust me, Legolas, I fear many things.”

That comment made Legolas smile in spite of himself. Then he went on, “My father told me when I left that he would not have me back. He has never been inclined to changing his mind easily.”

“Very true,” Lord Elrond replied with a hint of humor. Being one who had dealt with Thranduil as one elven lord to another, Legolas could imagine that Elrond had seen his father at his most intractable. But his next words surprised the younger elf. “You said things that night that you did not mean. Are you so certain King Thranduil meant all that he said in the heat of anger?”

“I…” Legolas faltered, thinking. *He did not mean what he said about Tathar. I did not mean what I said about Langcyll. Perhaps he did not…*

Lord Elrond was watching his face. “Glorfindel once told me he wondered why you avoided speaking of your troubles.”

Legolas smiled wryly, “It is because I do not know what to do.”

“Really?” Legolas looked up at the elven lord’s penetrating gaze. “Then why would you fear the advice of others?” He smiled. “Nay, Legolas, you are not so incapable of finding answers. If you had none, you would seek out the counsel of your friends.”

“I do not understand.”

Elrond held the younger elf’s eyes, and Legolas could not look away. “You know what you must do, Legolas. You have known it all along. You avoid speaking of it because others would only confirm what you already know, thus preventing you from denying it. Truth is the most inevitable thing of all.”

Legolas briefly closed his eyes, acknowledging that Lord Elrond was right. “I know I must return to Mirkwood. I shall find no end to this anywhere else, nor any other way. I must face my father.” But inside, a part of his mind cried, *But what if he will not have me? What then?*

The doubts must have showed in his face. “You cannot win a war without fighting the first battle. You cannot solve a problem without first facing it, warrior of Mirkwood. Return home first. Then resolve you troubles with your father.”

With a little laugh, Legolas shook his head. “You make it sound so easy, my lord.”

The Lord of Imladris smiled knowingly. As if he were letting the younger elf in on a secret, he said, “Forget not that I am a father, Legolas. I think perhaps it shall end better than you expect.”

“You are a wise counsel, Lord Elrond. Thank you,” said Legolas earnestly.

Elrond shook his head. “You must have more faith in yourself. I told you nothing you did not already know.” Then he smiled and walked back to the House, leaving Legolas alone with his thoughts.

***

Glorfindel had intended to talk to Legolas earlier, but Lord Elrond had seen him following the young warrior outside and had told Glorfindel to leave off for now. Glorfindel had been surprised, but let Legolas escape. Later, he had seen Elrond walking in the direction Legolas had gone. That had been a relief, though Glorfindel had wondered for a time why the Lord of Imladris would want to speak to Legolas. Then he supposed that Elrond correctly considered the matter serious enough to warrant his own attention.

Several hours later, the captain of Imladris happened upon the son of Thranduil on a path beyond the House. Legolas was leaning against the trunk of an apple tree, apparently deep in thought, gazing at the mist from the waterfalls that drifted into the air and created rainbows in the late afternoon sun. Glorfindel was startled, because Legolas usually could not even bring himself to look at apple trees.

“Hello, Glorfindel.” Legolas did not take his eyes off the misty canyon.

Glorfindel smiled. “Hello, Legolas. It is good to see you.”

The younger elf turned and smiled, amusement twinkling in his gray eyes. He looked surprisingly light of heart for one who faced a precarious future abroad or at home. Not to mention his uncharacteristically bold words to Glorfindel. “What took you so long?”

“Pardon?”

In a sly tone, the younger warrior said, “I would have expected you to chase me down and lecture me long before now.”

“And I would have expected you to avoid me far longer than this.” *Two can play at this game, young one!*

Odder still, Legolas did not persist in a contest of wits (odd because he was quite good at that!) Instead, his face turned honest and serious, acknowledging the reasons Glorfindel wanted to talk to him. “If I sought to avoid you, I would not have come to Rivendell.”

“Now you are truly confusing me, Legolas.”

“This is a first; the ever-wise Lord Glorfindel, confused? The world is coming to an end!”

“It has been coming to an end for some time, and you’re a brash one this afternoon. What did Lord Elrond say to raise your spirits so?”

Legolas gave a little chuckle. After a moment, in a thoughtful voice, he replied, “Naught that I did not already know.”

*Something about your bearing has changed. You seem older. I wonder.* “There is a feast being laid out in Lord Elrond’s House to honor Estel’s return. Will you accompany me back?”

Blinking himself out of whatever reverie was occupying his mind, Legolas nodded amiably, “Of course.” Glorfindel clapped a friendly hand on his fellow warrior’s shoulder as they walked back. They talked of the son of Thranduil’s travels with Aragorn, and the weapons instruction each had received from the other. They talked of Faron in Imladris and Galithil in Mirkwood--and all the trouble that each had gotten into since they last met. However, they did not talk of Legolas and his father. As Glorfindel looked at Legolas, he noticed a clarity in the young elf’s eyes, as though he had at last answered a hard question. And the warrior captain of Imladris suspected that Legolas no longer needed anyone’s help solving his problems.

***

Mirkwood, that same time…

The Crown Prince of Mirkwood was incredibly frustrated. “You say he was in a better mood, but you did not talk to him about sending for Legolas?!” he asked his sister in dismay. “Then what by the Valar did you talk about?”

“Many things,” Limloeth said in a patient voice that never failed to irritate him. “Peace, Beren, I think it helped a great deal.”

“How can we help anything without making him address the problem, Lim? We must force him to bring Legolas back--”

Limloeth grabbed his arm, “Listen to yourself! Do not be foolish! No one ever ‘forced’ Father to do anything in his life! You will accomplish nothing by getting into a battle of wills! You are strong, Brother, but he is still stronger when it comes to Legolas.”

“But you said yourself, there must be a peace between them--”

“Yes.” Firmly, Limloeth pressed her brother into a chair on the flet where they had gone to talk. She could be so inscrutable at times! Berensul glared at her, but she spoke again. “Father will not be won over by fighting. You must trust me in this. I saw his mind last night; he is more reasonable than he has been in years. If you challenge him again, you will only harden his heart again against us all, including Legolas.”

“I did not challenge him!”

“That is how he sees it, Berensul, so it matters not. You know him. Have faith again. I think Legolas shall be home.”

His anxiety still great, Berensul gazed up at the stars through the treetops. “I wish I could still believe in him as you do, Lim. But it is a gamble, and I fear gambling on our brother’s future.”

His sister narrowed her brown eyes at him. “Think what you wish. But I say to you, Beren, if you try to confront him, you shall only make matters worse.”

The eldest son of Thranduil was known for having a will and temper to match the king’s, and it was true; few could contend with Berensul and win. Except his nearest sibling. Now Limloeth held his scowl with an equally-unyielding stare of her own, and at last he dropped his eyes. “Very well, Sister. I’ll not bring up the subject with Father.”

“That is wise, Brother.”

When he returned to the palace, Berensul found he could not so easily place all his faith in Limloeth’s words, no matter how much he trusted her. Too much was at stake. But nor could he violate his promise by confronting the king. The Crown Prince was very much like his father in that he did NOT like the insidious twist of fear within him. One brother and two sisters were already dead. Another brother had passed over the sea, never to be seen again. He could not simply leave the future of his last remaining brother up to fate and the machinations of others. He had to do something. Perhaps there was another way…grabbing a scroll, he hastily wrote a message to one person trusted enough by all, who might be able to help.

“My sister has advised me to cease broaching the subject of Legolas. She believes that when the time comes, the king will accept Legolas again without our persuasion. But I fear I cannot be so sure that wisdom shall prevail. You know of the events that led to my brother’s departure from Mirkwood six months ago. I worry that my father’s heart is frozen beyond all hope, and that even if Legolas should return himself, the king would not have him back. You are a wise and trusted counsel to us all, and your help in this matter would greatly ease my mind. Please come to Mirkwood as soon as you are able.”

Despite the late hour, the Crown Prince sent for a messanger. “I have a potentially lengthy trip for you, Thorod. You are to leave at once; it is a matter of great urgency. Search all Middle Earth if you must, but get this letter to Mithrandir.”

***

The feast that same evening in the Last Homely House was especially merry. The sons of Elrond delighted in the chance to talk and laugh with their human foster-brother, and their fellow warrior and friend, Legolas. Especially since the two had enough stories between them to keep everyone entertained. “Do not gloat over that sparring victory too much, son of Thranduil, or I shall be forced to remind you of how you managed to get yourself captured!”

“Captured by a mob of drunken Haloel guards?” exclaimed Elrohir. “I must hear this!”

“It was not my fault; Aragorn distracted me!”

“I what?!”

“I was too busy keeping that spy’s sword from your throat to fight off a mob determined to push me over the wall!”

“Untrue, you were merely sloppy!”

“Ha!”

Watching the verbal swordplay with great amusement, Glorfindel remarked, “I suspect you both have an inborn ability to attract trouble straight to your doors.”

“I agree with Glorfindel,” said Elladan. “You are both such hooligans I could not pronounce either one more likely to get into peril.” The rest of the table laughed in acquiescence, and Aragorn and Legolas mock-glared at each other. It interested Elladan no end to see how the Sindarin prince and the heir of Isildur seemed to have bonded. It was true that in many ways they were alike, but still…Legolas, son of Thranduil, was definitely not one to give his trust or friendship easily, and certainly not to a mortal. Aragorn was a naturally cautious man, and with his lineage, it was doubtful he would be very forthcoming with a strange elf. It was strange circumstances indeed that would bring such an unlikely pair together.

And judging by what they were saying, the revolt in Haloel had been rather strange circumstances. “So,” Aragorn was laughing. “First he handed out wine skins right before the charge--”

“What?!” Elrohir exclaimed, bursting into laughter. “Oh be off, you’re spinning tales!”

Raising a hand, Legolas laughed, “He speaks the truth, friend, I was there. But you’ve not heard the best part.”

Aragorn nodded, grinning helplessly, “Once his men were all wined up--and some of them were so drunk that they could barely put on their mail--he stood out there in front of them while his attendants put armor all over him!”

Elladan forgot his musings in his astonished delight. “What? You mean he…”

The two nodded gleefully. “I wish you’d seen it; he looked like some kind of misshapen child’s toy.”

“I still say he looked like a beet. His riding robes were bright red,” Legolas explained. That prompted a renewed explosion of laughter. “Then he toasted their victory.” Elrohir nearly fell across the table, helpless with laughter. “That was our reaction as well.”

“I would not have been able to fight for laughing! How did you manage--ah, why are you scowling, Aragorn?”

“I did tell you about the horses, did I not, Elrohir?”

“Ai. So that was when you marked that guard captain out for death, eh, Legolas?”

Pausing before taking a bite of bread, Legolas said in a level voice, “No one touches my horse.” The others grinned and nudged each other.

Elrohir leaned forward and remarked, “Speaking of horses…”

“Ahhh, Elrohir, it has been thirty years! Are you still agitating for a race?” exclaimed Glorfindel, laughing.

“I still say Ethuil could outrun Lanthir.”

“Isn’t Ethuil getting rather old?” Legolas asked.

“She’s only a year older than Lanthir. Was not he a gift from Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn? Ethuil was.”

“Yea, he was. For the coming of age.”

“Now I remember,” Elrohir grinned in challenge. “What about it, Legolas. Shall we test our mounts at last?”

Legolas smiled and said, “I would not hesitate, but I fear there shall not be time. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Aragorn stopped with a forkful of meat halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Where are you going?” asked Glorfindel.

Holding the Imladris captain’s eyes, Legolas said calmly, “Back to Mirkwood.”

The table quieted considerably, and the prince returned the startled expressions of all with a level gaze of his own. Elladan was impressed. *Legolas has always despised being the center of attention. He usually drops his eyes. Now he does not.* Judging by the respect in the eyes of Glorfindel, Elrond, and Elrohir, Elladan knew he was not the only one who noticed.

***

Early the next morning…

The mist from their well-named mountains filled all Imladris with a crisp, silvery cloud that gradually turned shades of red and gold as the light of the rising sun crept into the canyon. Other than the elves on watch, few creatures stirred in the early November chill. Indeed, Lanthir was quite put out when his rider called him from the warmth of the stables. “Forgive me, my friend, but I wish to make an early start of it,” said Legolas as the horse focused reproachful black eyes upon him.

Legolas turned at the sound of hoof beats approaching from the stables. It was Elrohir, riding Ethuil. “What about that race, Legolas?”

“Oh, have done, Elrohir, I must be going!” Legolas laughed.

“Just back to the House then so you may say goodbye. Then we’ll have you on your way even faster,” Elrohir urged, a wicked smile on his face.

With a disgusted shake of his head, Legolas mounted. “It seems he’ll not be placated, my friend. May I persuade you?” The horse whinnied and tossed his head at Elrohir’s mare. “Very well. First one under the last arch wins.”

“Done! Ready?” Elrohir leaned forward challengingly. “Ride!”

Lanthir and Ethuil needed no urging to break into a run, down the path back toward Lord Elrond’s House. The horses were close, neither with an obvious edge as they sprinted, but all at once, the riders heard another horse approaching. Pulling up beside them, they saw that it was Aragorn, on Pariedor. “Is this a private contest, or may anyone join?” He laughed as the two elves urged their horses faster, and leaned forward, whispering to Pariedor.

Lanthir and Ethuil were neck-and-neck as they raced down the path under the first arch, with Pariedor just behind them. From the House, the riders could hear shouts of playful encouragement as the other elves spotted the race in progress. Under the second arch, Lanthir began sprinting with all his might, and pulled slightly ahead of Ethuil, to the excited shouts of the witnesses. Then, as the veranda of the Last Homely House came into view, a dark figure came into view on the other side of Legolas, and before he or Lanthir could react, Aragorn and Pariedor surged up, first level with them, then ahead of them. Lanthir charged with all his might, but Pariedor passed under the last arch ahead of them, to the triumphant cries of the watchers.

The three riders pulled up to the laughter of the others. Aragorn grinned wickedly back at the two elves, who mock-glared at him. “Now that score is settled.”

“Fah!”

Lord Elrond was watching the three with what might appear to be mild tolerance for the antics, but Legolas had seen enough of the elven lord to know that he was highly amused. (Probably still more to see that the bragging contest that Legolas and his second son had been carrying on for more than thirty years had finally been brought to an end with both of them losing to Aragorn.) *Curse that Ranger anyway!* he thought, but without malice. Instead, he settled for nodding appreciatively as Elrohir fetched Aragorn a thorough clout on the back of the head. Turning to face Elrond, the prince bowed, “I thank you for your hospitality, my lord.”

Lord Elrond nodded, smiling faintly. “I hope we shall see you in Rivendell again, Legolas.”

“I daresay you shall, my lord.”

The Lord of Imladris clasped the son of Thranduil arm firmly. “Until then. Safe journey.”

“Thank you.”

Then Elladan, Elrohir, and Aragorn came up to say their farewells. “Take care of yourself, Legolas,” said Elladan. Legolas grinned as he embraced his friends. It was rather amusing to see the three of them together; they acted so alike that Legolas was amazed he had not guessed who Aragorn was at their first meeting. “Farewell, my friend.”

“Until we meet again,” Legolas said, clasping arms with each of them. “Give my apologies to Faron.”

“Certainly,” said Elrohir. “Glorfindel asked us to give you his greetings as well; he left on a patrol before dawn.”

Legolas was sorry not to see Glorfindel again before leaving, but he needed to be on his way. He hoped to be home within a week. Whatever that homecoming held in store for him, it was high time for him to face it. *I will not be frightened away anymore.* To his fellow warriors, and the Lord of Imladris, he said, “Farewell, my friends.” Then he mounted Lanthir and rode toward the eastern border of Imladris.

Just as he reached the border, Legolas spotted an Imladris patrol coming in. At the head of the group was Glorfindel. Legolas waved at them, and as the group pulled up to him, Glorfindel waved the rest on. “Are you off, then, Legolas?”

“I am,” the younger warrior answered. “But I am glad of this chance meeting, for I know not how long it will be until I return. I may remain in Mirkwood for some time.”

Glorfindel fixed Legolas with a gaze that seemed to measure him, and though Legolas was puzzled, he did not avoid the elven lord’s eyes. A slow smile crossed Glorfindel’s face. “One last word of advice, young prince.” At Legolas’s raised eyebrows, he said, “I’ve noticed recently that you appear much older when you hold your head up.” He reached out and clasped the son of Thranduil’s arm. “I think others of our kindred shall be equally impressed.” Giving the younger elf’s arm a last squeeze, he let go, “Farewell, Legolas.”

Legolas smiled. “Goodbye, Glorfindel. And thank you.” Then Glorfindel turned and urged his horse on. Legolas watched him, smiling to himself. Then he patted his horse’s neck. “Come, Lanthir. Let’s go home.”

***

The next day…

Under normal circumstances, Thorod, the messanger from Mirkwood, would have had to ride all around Middle Earth to actually find Gandalf the Grey, for one could never predict where the wizard might be at any given time. Many places and many people were visited by Gandalf. But by some happy chance, the elf encountered the wizard only a two days’ ride from Mirkwood, though Mithrandir was on foot. “Good day, young Thorod of Mirkwood,” said the Maia cheerfully.

“Good day, Mithrandir,” said Thorod, dismounting. “I bear an urgent message from Berensul, Crown Prince of Mirkwood.”

“Hmm,” his bushy eyebrows furrowed curiously, Mithrandir accepted the proffered scroll. A slow frown darkened his features as he read the message. After a moment, he looked up at Thorod, “Say to the Crown Prince that I shall start at once, and expect to be in Mirkwood by the end of the week.”

“My thanks, Mithrandir. Good morning,” the messenger rode away.

Gandalf started walking again, this time towards Mirkwood. “The king’s heart has frozen, has it? I feared such an event after Legolas went away. I hope I am not too late to help salvage matters.”

***

Three days later…

Lord Elrond felt a pit of dread form inside him as the messenger rode up to the House, bearing the flag of King Thranduil. “A message from the king of Mirkwood, my lord!”

“Thank you.” Elrond counted back in his head. It had only been four days since Legolas had gone. In the winter, it was highly unlikely that he had made it all the way to the elven king’s halls yet, even on a steed as fast as Lanthir. He had probably not even crossed the mountains yet. So what could this message entail? He returned to his study and opened it there.

[ My greetings, Lord Elrond.

I write to ask that you and your people keep watch for my son, Prince Legolas, who is currently abroad in Middle Earth. If he should happen to pass through your realm, I beg that you give to him the message I have enclosed. Please make certain that it is placed in no hands save his.

My thanks and regards,

Thranduil of Mirkwood.]

Elrond leaned back in his chair, staring out the window, where two elf children were picking the last apples from a tree outside. Legolas was four days out of Rivendell, on his way home. Surely it was more important that he actually see his father face to face, and yet…something told the elven lord that this message would go a long way toward easing the prince’s doubts about the upcoming meeting. *Whatever Thranduil’s other failings, he is a father. I think I can guess what his letter says. It would do Legolas good to see it.*

He made up his mind. Rising swiftly from his chair, the Lord of Imladris hurried to Glorfindel. “An urgent message has arrived for Legolas. Order an escort of guards; I shall ride after him and deliver it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

It was not surprising that Glorfindel sounded a little puzzled; this was a rather rash action on Elrond’s part. But, between his Ring and his elvish intuition, the half-elven lord had learnt to trust his inner voice. And for whatever reason, it was telling him very emphatically that he must follow Legolas, all the way to Mirkwood if necessary. A premonition this strong was next to impossible for Lord Elrond to ignore.

***

That same day, in the Misty Mountains…

The orc captain glowered down from his hidden cave entrance in the mountainside, watching the lone elf on horseback riding swiftly down the trail. “An elf alone. Don’t see that every day.”

Several of the others shook their heads, grinning in malicious agreement. “Fair game, I say. Let’s take him!”

The captain narrowed his eyes at the rider, then looked ahead of him, trying to figure his destination. “Must be heading for the plains.”

“Yes, look, he’s wearing Mirkwood colors. On his way home.”

“Won’t ever get there!” Laughing, the orcs nudged each other.

“What say you, boss? Can we have him?”

The captain pointed ahead of the golden-haired elf, “He’s heading for that pass. If we beat him there, we can take him down without having to dodge arrows every step. C’mon!”

The orc company hastened to a place on the trail that passed between two high cliffs. There they set up an ambush guaranteed to bring the elf down without risking serious hurt to their numbers. It was still light, but they could keep to the caves; this type of ambush did not need them in the open. Waiting from the caves that pockmarked the mountains, the orcs grinned at each other as their quarry approached, riding as though in haste and unaware of his peril.

***

Legolas could feel Lanthir tiring beneath him, but the horse could sense his rider’s urgency. Whatever awaited him at home, Legolas was so tense that he simply wanted the trip over with, so it could be faced and dealt with. Lord Elrond had been confident the meeting would not go ill, but Legolas could not be so sure. Many “what ifs” played about in his mind, distracting him from the trail as he approached one of the last passes. “Just get us to the plains, Lanthir, and then we’ll rest for the night,” he told the horse.

Lanthir whinnied in response and picked up the pace. Up ahead of them, the trail narrowed, and the ground grew rocky. Cursing to himself in irritation at the delay, Legolas dismounted, leading Lanthir over the rough, pebbly part of the path. It wouldn’t do to injure the horse in his haste. His mind still whirled with anxiety, and he knew he should pay attention, but his heart and eyes strained for sight of the trees beyond the plains.

Suddenly, a familiar, deadly sound jerked Legolas out of his thoughts. An orc shriek. From the cliffs above, but it was not yet dark, so why a challenge? Legolas snatched out his bow and an arrow, and kept walking, feeling a sudden desire to get out of this pass. There were caves all through the steep upgrade, but surely orcs would not come out in the sun for one elf. “Hurry, Lanthir,” he whispered, breaking into a jog ahead of the horse.

All at once, there came a grinding sound that was not made by any animal’s throat. It started low, distant over the tops of the mountains, then grew. Legolas had not heard such a sound before. Looking up, he saw dust on the hillside, and a sight that nearly made him collapse with terror.

Rocks, boulders, stone, and dirt were rolling down the steep hills, gathering more debris and momentum with every second. The orcs had triggered a rockslide. Panic nearly rooted Legolas to the ground, then Lanthir screamed. *Ai Elbereth! No! Help me!* Leaping instinctively to Lanthir’s back, Legolas cried, “Fly!” The horse did not have to be told twice.

The end of the pass seemed so far away, and the avalanche came raining down, faster and faster in its cloud of terrible dust. The elf’s heart was in his throat, as memory of stories and the past of his own family whirled inside him. Never before had he known such terror. If he did not make it out of here, he would be crushed, or buried alive and taken by the orcs. Thoughts and questions whirled still faster within him, and he knew even as he chanted desperately at Lanthir to speed up, there was no way he would make it.

“Father…”

The last thing he saw was a massive cloud of dust blocking all view, the last thing he heard was the roar of the stone and the scream of his horse, and the last thing he felt was a colossal force slamming him into oblivion.

*****  



	24. An Elf Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

The orcs howled triumphantly as the avalanche did its work, sweeping over the desperately fleeing elf and burying him beneath its weight. One of the creatures casually remarked, “That thing was bigger than we meant it to be.”

The captain nodded, “Might’ve killed the elf, I guess.” Then he shrugged, laughing, “No skin off our noses anyway if it did!”

The others laughed, and made their way down as the thunder of the falling rocks finally ceased. The clouds of dust blocked the sun, allowing them to work their way down the steep slope. “Hurry it up before the dust clears!” shouted the captain.

“Look!” one of them shouted, pointing a clawed finger.

The captain spied a wounded horse struggling from the edge of the rubble and staggering away from the orcs. Blood matted its gray mane and it limped badly. “Never mind the horse. If it survived, maybe the elf did too.”

Under the weight of the crushing boulders and flying shards of rock, it would seem at first glance that nothing could have escaped death. But elves were hardier than their appearance suggested; even orcs knew that. If this one’s horse had survived, chances were good that he yet lived. “Hey! Boss! Found ‘im!”

The captain came to where the others were pointing, and sure enough, the orcs had discovered a tangle of golden hair amid the rubble. Clearing away more blood-spattered rocks, they uncovered the crumpled form of the trapped elf. Blood dripped from an ugly wound near his hairline, down his face, and from the corner of his mouth. Much of his fair skin was already black and blue beneath his tattered clothing. His eyes were tightly closed. But as the orcs hauled the limp body from the rubble, a moan of pain told them he was still among the living.

The captain looked at the rest of his goblins and grinned, baring his teeth in anticipation. “Now we’ll REALLY have some fun!”

***

Imladris, at the same time…

“Should I go with you, Father?” Aragorn asked Lord Elrond anxiously as the Lord of Imladris mounted his horse.

“Nay, Estel, you have only just returned. Take your ease. I merely want to get this message to Legolas before he reaches Mirkwood. We’ll be gone two weeks at the most.” Elrond turned and gripped the hands of each of his sons in parting. “Farewell.”

“Safe journey, Father,” Elladan, Elrohir, and Aragorn said. Smiling at the trio, Elrond whispered to his horse and started the company off down the trail.

Elladan glanced over and saw Aragorn’s eyes still watching the elven lord as he and his escort rode out of sight. “What troubles you, Estel?”

Aragorn was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “But something makes me very uneasy. I will be glad when he has met Legolas and both are safely at home.”

***

That night, in Mirkwood…

King Thranduil struggled over the piled rocks and debris left by the landslide, weeping desperately. The clouds of dust and dirt made it impossible to see his hand in front of his face. From around him, he could hear the sounds of battle, but try as he might, Thranduil could not find the elves he knew to be in trouble.

He had never been to this place in his real life, but tonight, his dreams had taken him there. The mountains, where the orc-released rockslide and ensuing ambush had claimed his three children. *They are here somewhere. I must find them! I am their king! I am their father! I must aid them!*

An elven maid’s cry rang out, very close. “Where are you?!” Thranduil cried desperately, all control long gone in his panic to find his missing children.

The clouds of brown dirt seemed to part suddenly before him, and with a strangled gasp of horror, the elven king saw three forms lying upon the ground as though in state. One was a tall elven warrior, strong and seasoned. How could it be that so skilled a fighter would fall this way? Yet it was so; he was dead. The other two were young maidens, identical twins, so much alike that only their closest kindred could distinguish them. So young, only just come of age. Inseparable, it was impossible to see or even imagine one without the other. Now both slain.

Thranduil knelt beside Tavron, Meren, and Lalaith, trembling and helpless. He could not touch them. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me. I could not save you. I failed you.” He wept with grief and shame. *I could not protect you…*

All at once, the sounds of battle rang out anew. And there were new cries, a new voice calling for Thranduil. In real life, this voice could not have been heard here, for the owner of that voice had not yet been born when Tavron, Meren, and Lalaith died. Yet it was here, and the dreamer knew it at once. For asleep and awake, this voice haunted him. “Father!” came a frantic cry from somewhere in the dust. “Help me! Please help me!”

Thranduil spun around, but the dust was still too thick to see. Three of his children were dead, yet one still lived. He could not let this one die too, alone. He rushed into the murk; it blinded him, but still he searched. He could not fail again. “Legolas? Legolas! Answer me! Where are you?”

The voice calling from nearby seemed both old and young; it was the Legolas who had come of age and gone away, yet it was also Legolas as a young child, which Thranduil remembered like yesterday. It did not matter either way. It was his son. “Father!”

“Legolas!” The cries were gone. Thranduil could hear nothing, see nothing. “Legolas!”

***

In the mountains, at the same time…

Pain. Throbbing, aching, stinging pain was the first thing that registered as Legolas came around. His skull felt half-crushed on one side, and his left ankle felt twice its normal size. He could taste liquid metal in his mouth. The elf moaned, disoriented, and tried to move to a more comfortable position. Immediately, an unforgiving fist, encased in a mail glove, connected with his jaw, sending an explosion of light into his closed eyes. “So, the little elf’s awake at last!”

In spite of his pain, Legolas lay perfectly still, though his heart pounded wildly in his chest. The cackles in the darkness grew along with the dread he felt. A boot nudged him experimentally, then came a metal slap. “Wake up, elf!”

Slowly, forcing an expression of calm, the warrior opened his eyes, still gritty with dust. Orcs. All around him, jeering and watching him with those hideous yellow eyes.

This was not good.

That established, he turned to his other surroundings. It was after dark, and the orcs had made camp near the rubble of the avalanche. Legolas could feel the rough stones beneath his body. His hands and feet were bound tightly with ropes.

The orc with the chain mail gloves seemed to be the leader of the band. Certainly he was taking the lead in harassing the captive. Legolas swallowed a surge of humiliation at the recognition that he was a prisoner. *Worry about pride later,* he told himself. *Now figure out how you are going to get out of here.* Taking slow, calming breaths, he looked more closely at the orc camp. There were maybe a few dozen, not a terribly large band, if only he had his bow. Carefully moving only his eyes, he scanned the camp and soon found what he was looking for: several orcs huddled in a group quarrelling violently. Sure enough, the prizes in question were his bow and quiver, and his two knives. Anger boiled up within him. *These foul beasts shall never wield my weapons!*

If he could just get his bonds loose and reach his weapons, he could probably escape. But those first two tasks presented a rather daunting obstacle. And--Lanthir. Before he could catch himself, Legolas twisted his head toward the debris of the avalanche in search of some sign of his horse. Unfortunately, that got the orcs’ attention again. Another slap jerked his head, causing bells to ring loudly in his ears. “Looking for a way to escape, eh, little elf?” mocked a grating voice. “Keep looking; you’re ours. Mmm, yes, you elves are sturdy, that’s sure. Came through that rockslide quite nice. You’ll last long enough to give us plenty of fun, you will!”

Legolas hardened his eyes, but did not lower himself to responding. One of the others sidled up next to the leader, “Looks to me like he’s recovered enough, Sirch.”

The leader nodded, grinning in a way that made Legolas’s skin crawl. “Yes, looks ripe for a little sport, eh, friends?” There was a chorus of growls and cackles in agreement.

“Me first!” yelled one, scrambling forward eagerly.

“Nay, I am,” Sirch replied, shoving the other back. Pulling out a nasty-looking black whip, he gestured at the others. Two orcs yanked Legolas’s cloak from his back, choking him and leaving a red weal on his neck where the fastening finally broke. Then they rolled him onto his stomach. Even before the elf had time to brace himself, the lash cracked loudly, bringing a tongue of fiery pain down onto his back. Catching his breath, Legolas stifled a cry, but could not restrain himself from jerking reflexively. Then came another, and Legolas gasped. Then another. Four orcs held him still as he fought to keep from screaming, and his mind cursed in humiliation.

One of them tangled a foul hand in his long hair, using it to hold his head down. Like snakes of fire, the lashes kept coming. Legolas grunted, but somehow managed not to scream. The backs of his cote and tunic had been shredded by the whipping, and the fabric rubbed the stripes painfully at the slightest movement. With a jerk that made him groan the orc in front of him yanked his hair and head up, and dealt him a solid backhand across the face, splitting his lip. As the elf shook his head from the blow, the orcs rolled him cruelly onto his lacerated back. Legolas could not quite stifle a whimper.

The rest kept holding him down, but Sirch had moved beyond his line of sight. Whatever he was up to, all the other orcs were grinning and jeering in anticipation. “Wish you were dead yet, elf?” came Sirch’s voice from somewhere behind him. In spite of his pain, Legolas wanted to scoff at them. Surely they did not think they could break him, an elf, by mere beating! Then Sirch spoke again, “You will, when we’re done with you!”

Orcs by nature are quarrelsome creatures, even among themselves. So it was definitely not a good sign that all gave way as Sirch returned--as though whatever the orc leader had planned was something to look forward to. So the orcs and Legolas watched as Sirch carried over a small black metal pot, and several long, thin thorns. The captors laughed and jeered as Legolas, recognizing what Sirch had, began to squirm instinctively in a vain attempt to free himself. He had heard of this particular orc game, and all was lost if they carried it out.

Slowly, as the orcs muttered eagerly and Legolas was forced to watch, Sirch dipped several of the thorns into the pot. They came out covered in what looked like black oil. “Know what this is, don’t you, elf?” Sirch sneered. “Nasty stuff for your kind--then, ours don’t like it too much either, eh?” the orcs laughed and nudged each other as though sharing a good joke. “Hurts like hell, but won’t kill you too fast. Nice and slow. While we get to watch and keep having our fun with you.”

“Do it right, Sirch, and he’ll linger for a month!”

“Ha, a month’s sport with an elf!”

“Sooo, where first?”

“His hand!”

“Nah, his foot!”

“Yeh, won’t be running away after that!” Sirch grinned and advanced on Legolas, who attempted to wrench away. The orcs laughed and pinned him down, and to his despair and shame, Legolas could do nothing to break free. He watched, helpless and horrified, as the orcs untied his limbs, and one of them grabbed his leg. “Ahh, poor little elf’s got a swollen ankle!” Sirch jeered. “Know just the cure!”

Legolas jammed his teeth into his lower lip, but then Sirch plunged the long barb directly into his ankle. Like a hot brand, fiery agony ripped through his skin, tearing through the swollen flesh like acid, roaring up his leg as though it had gone straight to his veins. All other sound was blotted out by the roaring in his ears, his sight blinded by searing pain. He wasn’t even aware that he was screaming until he stopped, gasping for breath, while the orcs laughed and taunted him. Then all he wished was to sink into unconsciousness, but several orc slaps kept him in tortured reality.

And still pain coursed up and down his entire body. Amazing, that just that little bit of orc poison could wreak such havoc within him. Moaning, the elf turned his face away from the mocking faces of his tormenters, closing his eyes. He tried to turn his mind to other things, distract himself from the pain. But no thought of home, family, or peace could push away the cyclone of misery and agony as another thorn bit into his left hand, and his pride burned as another cry of pain forced itself free. Writhing against the intractable grip of the orcs holding him down, Legolas prayed for death’s release as another cascade of acid agony tore up every nerve in his body, and screams of torment ripped from the very marrow of his bones.

The raucous noise of the loathsome creatures and the wails of their captive were so great that not a one of them heard the approaching hoof beats. Nor saw the approaching gray form until half a dozen of them were flung aside by fierce kicks. Jeers and laughter changed to shouts of surprise and alarm. The orcs scrambled for their weapons, but the gray horse attacked with the timing and ferocity of an elven warrior, giving them no quarter to react. Screeching goblins tumbled right and left, and angry trumpets of challenge pulled Legolas out of his pain-mazed state.

“Lanthir?” the elf whispered in disbelief. The stallion turned his attention to his rider, and rushed the orcs holding Legolas down. A fierce butt with his head sent Sirch flying, and as he leapt over Legolas, Lanthir’s front hooves struck two more in the heads, dropping them. The rest dove for cover, and Legolas found himself free.

Lanthir chased the orcs as they rushed off to regroup and figure out how to respond to a horse attack. Then the stallion charged back to his rider’s side, whinnying imperiously. One did not have to speak horse to know what he was saying. With a barely-stifled sob of relief and pain, Legolas staggered to his feet and flung himself onto the horse’s back. “Go!” he gasped weakly, clinging to Lanthir’s mane. Lanthir leapt over the nearest orcs and fled down the pass for the plains.

As the elf and horse galloped away, Sirch furiously dove for his bow, haphazardly plunging an arrow into the spilled poison pot. “Won’t get far, elf,” he muttered, taking aim.

The bolt slammed Legolas in the upper back, forcing its burning venom deep into his flesh. With a helpless scream of agony, Legolas lost his grip on the horse’s mane, but Lanthir slowed at once, and that momentum carried Legolas forward instead of backward. The elf slumped against Lanthir’s neck, holding on with what little strength he had left as the orc shrieks faded into the background. Moaning and choking on sobs, he felt the roaring torture in his blood swelling up to claim all his senses, blotting out reality. Despite his own injuries, Lanthir carried Legolas as long and fast as he could, out onto the plains until the horse sensed they were out of danger. And not a moment too soon; as the sun came up, Legolas’s grip failed altogether and he slid from the horse’s back, tumbling limply to the ground.

***

Mirkwood, the next day…

King Thranduil was standing alone on the steps of the outer palace when his daughter Limloeth came out to him. “You have spent much time here of late, Father.”

Without taking his eyes of the trees, Thranduil held out his hand, gently clasping hers. “It is a good place to think.”

“Yes.” There was a pause, and then, “A message came from Lothlórien this morning.”

“Your husband writes to hurry your return?”

“Not yet, but he does ask how much longer I intend to remain.”

Thranduil sighed, turning to face her. “I know not how soon we shall have any word, Daughter. I would not see you long apart from Orthelian.”

Limloeth nodded, smiling wryly. “If feels as though we have spent precious little time together since we wed. And I shall also watch for Legolas. For all his travels, it is possible he may pass through Lórien.”

Looking at the serene forest beyond the gates, Thranduil knew she was right. Though now, as always, his heart ached with the prospect of her leaving. “When do you intend to depart?”

“In a day or two. I promised Silivren I would take her to watch the novice warriors race tomorrow.”

“That is well. Berensul will be sorry. He misses you.”

“I know. And I him. I miss all of my brothers.”

***

On the plains, at the same time…

The noontime sun did little to warm the late autumn air. With no cloak and his tunic in shreds (along with the skin of his back), the cold bothered Legolas far more than it normally would.

He had awakened here on the plains to Lanthir’s nuzzling--and a searing pain from the arrow still buried in his back. The elf needed no one to tell him that the arrow was also poisoned; it felt just as those thorns had, only far worse. He had been uncertain of what to do first, but knew the bolt must come out, and soon. After a few minutes of anxious searching, Legolas had found a small stream running down out of the mountains. Sitting on the edge with his swollen left foot in the icy flow, he had been forced to yank the arrow out himself. Though he had been unable to stifle a cry of pain, the arrowhead had come out on the first try. With tears of agony in his eyes, he had bathed his wounds as best he could.

Pain aside, the cold water made him feel stronger, and he slaked his thirst . He might be free of the orcs, but his troubles were not over. The powerful poison that Sirch had tortured him with would soon begin to act in earnest. He would only lose strength in the coming days, and it was anyone’s guess how long he could live without a healer. Not long.

He had two options. Rivendell was only about four days away, over the mountains, and he would probably meet a patrol sooner than that. His father’s halls were nearly a week away, across the plains and through the northern forest. It would be a stretch to try and get there in time. And he had another problem: Lanthir. Legolas had cursed himself at the sight of his beloved horse in the sun; Lanthir had been badly hurt, either in the avalanche or in the fight. It was amazing that the animal had been able to bear Legolas’s weight while fleeing the orcs last night. But he would not be able to do so again before his injuries were seen to.

*Which means, whichever way I go, I shall be walking.* Legolas sighed, rubbing Lanthir’s scraped neck as the horse came to drink next to where his rider sat.

His ankle was still in bad shape, but forcing Lanthir to carry him was not an option. Legolas was not sure if the horse would be capable of it. Over the mountains, he usually led Lanthir anyway, so that would make the journey maybe a day longer at most. It would probably as long as a full week or more to the elven king’s halls. With a groan of frustration, Legolas rested his head lightly against Lanthir’s side. *How could this unhappy turn keep me from my father yet again? The longer I tarry away from him, the less likely that he will ever have me back.*

As if that were not enough, their frantic escape into the night had taken Lanthir and Legolas out onto the plains, and now, on the horizon, Legolas could see the taunting shadow he knew to be the trees of his home. *To come so far as to have it in my sight…how can I possibly turn back now?*

The orc poison was slow-acting, that he knew. How slow was less certain, for there had been a generous dose of it on the arrow. Turning back west would get him to safety in plenty of time, while making for Mirkwood would cut it very close. *Don’t be foolish; you also have Lanthir to think of.*

But the dark line on the horizon that was Mirkwood held his eyes, calling to him in a pleading voice. His own heart called back just as longingly. He had been gone so long…he had not much time. Whatever his choice, he had better make it quickly. *I’ve so much I must say to my father. So many amends to make…*

Stumbling to his feet, Legolas made up his mind. “Go to Rivendell, Lanthir. They will see to you there. I shall come for you soon.”

The horse blinked dark eyes at his rider, as Legolas limped from the stream and began walking eastward. Legolas turned and scowled sternly as the horse began to follow him. “You cannot carry me, and you need a healer’s care yourself, Lanthir. You must go back to Rivendell.” The horse stared at Legolas, but refused to turn. Aggravated, Legolas exclaimed, “Go, Lanthir! You cannot come with me!”

Lanthir responded by walking up next to Legolas. Meeting his rider’s frustrated gaze, the stallion gave a snort that clearly meant, “Make me.”

Legolas sighed, shaking his head. “Stupid, stubborn beast. Almost as stubborn as I am. Very well, cast your lot with me if you must. And Elbereth have mercy on me if I get us both killed.” Turning to face the distant line of trees, he murmured, “Let’s go.”

***

Four days later, in the Misty Mountains…

“The pass is blocked!” Lord Elrond stared in surprise at the debris on the trail leading through the last of the mountain passes.

“A rockslide, my lord,” said one of his guards.

The riders of Imladris carefully threaded their way over the rocks. Elrond felt increasingly worried. This had never been an unstable area; it was better known for orcs than avalanches. He raised his eyes to the steep slopes, pockmarked with caves. An ideal spot for an ambush. “I sense a shadow in this place.”

“My lord!” the lead guard’s cry had a definite note of alarm.

Elrond’s walk broke into a run as he approached what the guards had found. Near the edge of the rubble was what had clearly been an orc camp. The remnants of their fire and their litter were there, but all had been abandoned as though the orcs had been forced to flee without having time to hide the evidence of their stay. There had also been a struggle, and a few orc corpses were lying to rot in the sun. But what alarmed the guards the most also sent a surge of dread through their lord. Near one of the carcasses was an elven bow and quiver, and two knives. The markings on the weapons were unmistakable. “Legolas,” Elrond whispered, horror coursing through him. “They caught him with the avalanche and took him.”

In a voice tense with anxiety for their kinsman, one of the guards called, “Perhaps not, my lord!” He pointed to the ground, “Horse tracks. And the marks of elf shoes.”

Elrond joined them and forced himself to concentrate on following the signs to determine what had passed here. “They were holding their captive down, doubtless tormenting him,” his jaw tightened with rage at the thought of the young warrior’s suffering. “The horse came--it must be Lanthir--and stirred them up, buying Legolas time to leap to his back. The horse rode out of the pass, limping. Both were hurt in the rockslide and the fight; I see blood on the stones.”

Several of the guards breathed sighs of relief, “So Prince Legolas escaped.”

“It appears so--” Elrond took another glance around the remains and froze. His heart dropped somewhere below his shoes as he walked to where a small pot lay on its side, its ominous black contents drying like tar in the sun. He did not touch the stuff. “We must find him,” the elven lord whispered. “And soon.” He did pick up, very carefully, two thorns that lay near the pot. They had the poison on them, but something more: blood. Elven blood.

Dropping the deadly barbs, Elrond rose swiftly. He ordered two of the guards to bring a team of elves from Rivendell to clear the pass. “The rest, we ride after Legolas. We must find him. He will need a healer’s care.” The enormity of what was happening struck the Lord of Imladris as too horrible to be believed. Snatching up the prince’s weapons, he sprang to his mount’s back and led the company from the ravine, praying. *A Elbereth, do not let us be too late.*

***

Legolas staggered through the outer palace gates, and all but dragged himself up the steps. He hurt so badly, but the other elves merely watched him with distaste. The door of the palace suddenly flew open, and there stood King Thranduil, tall and majestic, just as Legolas remembered. But there was no warmth, no concern on the elven king’s face at the sight of his son. “So, you are back,” he said in a cold tone that made Legolas cringe with shame. With an air of indifference, he started down the steps.

Struggling to straighten, Legolas whispered, “Father, please forgive me.” He was dying; couldn’t Thranduil see that? Without his father, he had nowhere to go!

A hand closed on his arm, and Thranduil jerked Legolas harshly to his feet, then back towards the gate. “You had your chance, little fool! It’s too late! You are no longer welcome in my halls!”

“Father--” but the king flung Legolas to the ground outside the gates and strode back inside. The doors of the palace slammed, leaving Legolas alone.

The prince lay in the dirt, unable to move. Then a dark-haired figure knelt over him. “So finally this is where your folly has brought you. At least this time you only got yourself killed.”

“Tathar?!” The blurry figure focused into his long-dead friend. But there was no love in Tathar’s face either. “No…”

“Why so sad, Legolas? It is your own fault. Always running and running, last time I was the one who paid the price for your cowardice. Now there’s nowhere left to run, no one left to help you--”

“No!” Legolas jerked himself back to consciousness beneath the tree where he had stopped to rest. Lanthir looked over at him and whuffed gently. Trembling, Legolas wiped his face, feeling sweat on his brow. At first, he thought it was just the nightmare, then looked around to see a coating of frost on the ground. How strange. He was feeling warm. The poison. Rising, Legolas felt substantially weaker than he had the night before. His heart sank; he still had so far to go. And the poison was taking a more powerful hold every minute. “Come, Lanthir,” he sighed wearily. “We haven’t much time.”

Walking quickly proved easier said than done. Legolas felt dizzy, and a horrible, pervasive weakness made him sluggish and unsteady on his feet. He had to lean against Lanthir to keep himself going in a straight line. Soon he began to shiver, though the weather was not nearly cold enough for that, and knew it was the poison. *A Elbereth, I will never make it…*

The trees seemed mockingly close, but Legolas felt a terrible urge to sink to the ground and never get up. Those cruel dreams plagued him with new doubts and fears. Surely his father would not deny him shelter in this state. Yet as the fever grew, certainties diminished, and nothing seemed sure anymore. The pain also came with a new fury, a deeper, harder pain than the initial fire of the poisoned darts. Sweat drenched his face, and he staggered on. *I cannot give up. Whatever awaits me, it is a matter of honor. More than that. I must go to my father--or die trying as the case may be.*

Legolas tripped on a root he had not seen in his path, painfully catching his still-wrenched ankle. With a cry, the elf fell to his knees, tears springing into his eyes with the jarring impact. As if the poison’s effects were not enough, it also had prevented his wounds from healing. Some of his disorientation was probably due to the head injury from the avalanche--or so he would have reasoned if he’d been coherent enough to analyze the situation. Cursing in weary frustration, he dragged himself to his feet, only to fall again an hour later over some stupid obstacle he should have avoided. But he got up again. And again. And again…

***

Mirkwood, three days later…

King Thranduil, Crown Prince Berensul and Crown Princess Eirien, and Silivren came out of the palace gates to see Princess Limloeth off. “Will you take me to Lothlórien some day, Aunt Limloeth?” Silivren pleaded.

“I promise I shall, Sili,” said Limloeth. “When you are older.”

“Everyone says that,” Silivren pouted.

Limloeth laughed, holding out her arms, “Because it is true, little one. Do not be in such a hurry to grow up.” She embraced her niece. “Farewell for now, Sili.”

Silivren returned to Golwen’s side as Berensul and Eirien came to say their goodbyes. “Take care, Sister,” Berensul whispered. “I shall miss you.”

Limloeth embraced him tightly. “And I you. Be well.” She embraced Eirien, then turned to her father.

“Safe journey, my daughter.”

“Farewell, Father. Until we meet again.” Kissing the king’s cheek, she mounted her horse and rode out of the gates.

***

Outside Mirkwood, the same day…

Sweat drenched his body. Pain and exhaustion sang in his blood and bones. But he walked on. Fever made his mind wander with fears and imagined threats, melding dream and reality into a confused blur. But he walked on. Bound by a need that no fever-fog could erase, a debt he owed to the one person he loved more than any, Legolas walked on. No matter how many times he fell, he rose again, and walked on.

He was so close; the trees taunted him with their nearness. But he was close enough now to hear their song, and it called him home, even as the poison’s fever raged in his body and mind. He was so close…

Legolas fell to his knees, trembling. He was also desperately thirsty, but there was not a stream or pond to be found. The frost of the morning had melted even as he had scraped what moisture he could find from leaves and grasses. Gasping for breath, feeling ridiculously winded, Legolas tried to rise. He fell again. This was absurd. He was an elf, a warrior of Mirkwood, the son of Thranduil. How could a mere glob of orc poison lay him so low? He dragged himself to the nearest tree, using its sturdy bulk to pull himself up. That enabled him to take five full steps before collapsing again. Kneeling upon the ground, Legolas began to accept the knowledge that he would not reach his father’s halls alive.

A soft whicker came then, and Lanthir’s nose gently brushed his ear. Blinking red, bleary eyes, Legolas smiled in spite of himself. “I fear you may have to leave me after all, my friend. This may be the end.” *Or perhaps not. If I can find the courage to leave my dignity behind, I may still have the strength to crawl for a ways. Then at least I will be under the trees.* That considered, Legolas attempted to drag himself onward.

Lanthir walked in front of him, staring at his rider balefully. The horse tossed his head, clearly offering an alternative. “Don’t be silly, Lanthir, you cannot bear me. You are wounded too.” Legolas tried to pull himself past the horse, but Lanthir got in the way again. “Curses, Lanthir, stop it! This is hard--and humiliating--enough as it is.”

With a distinctly sarcastic-sounding snort, the horse finally moved aside. Then he walked up next to Legolas--and bit the elf solidly on the ear. Legolas yelped in surprised pain and rolled aside, falling to the ground again. “Ai! Lanthir! That hurt!” Very deliberately, Lanthir seized a mouthful of Legolas’s hair and jerked. “Ow! Stop that!” The elf attempted to scramble away, but Lanthir calmly walked after him, nipping at Legolas every chance he got. “Aah! You crazy horse! Stop it--ow! Ai! Be off!” In his wounded, feverish state, Legolas was no match for the very determined stallion.

Only when the elf curled into an outraged, defensive ball on the ground did Lanthir desist. He lowered his head and gently nudged his rider with his nose, then stepped back expectantly. Legolas raised his head. “If I refuse, you will bite me again, I suppose?” He got an affirmative whinny. “Very well.” He pulled himself to his knees, and Lanthir helpfully came up beside him to serve as a brace. It took Legolas several embarrassing tries to get onto the horse’s back. He winced as he felt the horse buckle slightly. “You cannot bear my weight, Lanthir. Why are you doing this?” The horse simply snorted; it was clear that he was carrying Legolas whether the elf liked it or not, and Legolas had better hold on. With a sigh, Legolas took the horse’s mane. “Take me home, my friend. And try not to overexert yourself.”

With an answering whinny, Lanthir started off at a smooth trot. Until now, Legolas had been able to take his mind off the fever and pain with the effort of taking steps, but now it came with a new vengeance. He was also shivering badly, and he felt weaker than ever. Even if Lanthir were able to run all the way, it was doubtful he would last as long as it took to get home. The horse stumbled, jolting his rider, and Legolas moaned, doubling over. Weakly, he draped his arms around the horse and let himself fall against Lanthir’s neck. The poison was beginning to claim his consciousness, and it was getting very hard to breathe.

The elven horse sensed his rider’s distress, and before Legolas realized what had happened, Lanthir broke into a run. “Ahh, what--Lanthir, what by the Valar are you doing?” he gasped, holding on with all his might.

The trees were coming closer, and the gray stallion’s jarring strides were each a new exploration of agony for his rider. But Lanthir was also struggling, trying to keep from limping too badly, and fighting to ignore the effects of the other (more serious) injuries he had sustained in the avalanche. Even in his muddled state, Legolas sensed the horse was going beyond his limits. “Stop, Lanthir,” he pleaded. “You’ll kill yourself!”

Lanthir just snorted defiantly and continued running. The stallion had somehow figured out that he was the one chance Legolas had of reaching safety, and the loyalty of all good beasts to the elves was deep and strong. Still deeper and stronger was the devotion of an elven horse to its rider. Legolas heard distress in Lanthir’s breathing, felt him limping still more, and cried for him to stop, but the horse ignored him. The elf considered throwing himself from the horse’s back, but his body felt so weak that he feared he might break his own neck. And still the trees came closer. Mirkwood. So close.

Blood stained the lather of the wounded and weary horse, but Legolas could not see it. And Lanthir tossed his head anytime Legolas tried to look too closely. They were nearly there…Legolas let out a moan of pain and relief as they swept through the first dark trees, under the threshold of the forest. Its mere presence, like the open arms of his mother long ago, was a balm to the elf’s spirit. “We’re home, Lanthir. Stop now.” But Lanthir would not stop. Legolas saw a drop of blood strike a leaf as they raced on through the bushes. “Lanthir? By the Valar, STOP! You’re killing yourself! No!”

He pulled back on the horse’s mane, shifted his weight, fought for control, but his friend ran on. Panic gripped him, but the fever made him too weak to make any difference. The trees flashed past, and Legolas pleaded with the stallion desperately. “Lanthir, stop, please--” He felt the horse suddenly jerk in a new burst of pain, and cried out in anguish and horror as Lanthir pitched over, spilling his elven rider to the ground.

Legolas tumbled to a stop against a tree, groaning. It took several moments to get his wind back, and the fall had stunned him still more. What finally brought him around was a soft sigh from the forest, sadly noting the death of one of its creatures.

“Lanthir,” he whispered weakly, and tried to pull himself upright. He could not. So he crawled on his hands and knees to where the gray horse lay. Lanthir’s black eyes were dull, glazed, looking at nothing. Blood marked his soft muzzle. Legolas could hear no sound of breathing from the still form. The sighing of the trees--it could not be! “No…” Desperately, he ran his hands over the horse, trying to find some sign of life. “Lanthir,” he whimpered, fever and now grief destroying any control left in him. A sob escaped, tears began to streak his face, then he buried his face in Lanthir’s gray mane and wept helplessly. He could not even crawl anymore, and the sight of his beloved horse dead after trying to carry him home stole what was left of his will. He had nothing. *Nothing…* Lost, defeated, stripped of dignity and strength on the edge of Mirkwood, Legolas laid his head down next to Lanthir’s body and let his consciousness drift away.

*Legolas…*

Who was there? Someone had called his name. Dimly, Legolas looked around, though he had lost the strength to lift his head or call out.

*Legolas, do not let go.*

Someone was calling to him. Why did it matter, anyway? His Lanthir was dead. He was dying. He had lost everything and failed. They should leave him to his fate.

*Legolas, you cannot go.* From the blurry forest, a dark-haired figure ran out of the trees to the dying elf’s side. *Legolas? Do you not know who I am?*

Legolas felt his eyes widen, and forcing his mouth to work, he said weakly, “Tathar?” *How can you be here? Why do I matter to you after I got you killed in the mountains?*

Tathar laughed softly, kneeling next to Legolas. *Do not believe the phantoms of fever dreams, my dearest friend. You must not give up, Legolas. You’ve much yet to do. Come, I told you I should always be with you. Rise, son of Thranduil. You are needed here.*

“Tathar…I cannot…”

*In your heart, much strength still lies. Rise, Legolas. I am with you.*

Moaning with effort, Legolas braced himself against the ground, managing to sit up slightly, and looked around for his friend. “Tathar?” But the forest was empty. He was so tired…yet the echoes of Tathar’s voice would not leave him, and he continued the struggle. With much effort, he fought the dizzy weakness of his body until he was upright against a tree. Then he pushed himself off the tree and staggered a few steps to the next tree, catching himself against it. He rested his forehead against its brown bole, fighting the poison’s insidious urge to lie down and sleep himself to death. He was already out of breath.

Just then, he heard footsteps coming through the forest. “Tathar?” He held onto the tree for dear life and looked about, trying to see him. His vision was a green and brown blur, but a gray figure came out of the haze. “Lanthir?”

“Who goes there--” a gruff voice began, than stopped. Legolas blinked, unable to identify or remember the speaker. The voice came again, this time full of alarm and shock. “By the Valar, young Legolas! What’s happened to you?”

“I…” Legolas blinked harder as the figure came closer, trying to clear his vision. At last it focused enough to show him what appeared to be an old man, with a long gray beard and pointed hat. “Mithrandir?” He pulled away from the tree and promptly collapsed.

The Maia caught him, easing him toward the ground. “This is an unexpected meeting, young prince of Mirkwood. Forgive my manners, but you look most unwell.”

Sleep was such a wonderful thing. With an effort, Legolas managed to raise his head to speak. “Poison. Orcs,” he mumbled. The presence of the wizard, the gentle voice of the trees, and the still-rising fever were robbing him of coherent thought. Shadow called enticingly to him. He just wanted to sleep.

“No, no, Legolas, you cannot do that. You must stay awake until we can get some healer’s draught into you. Orc poison, was it? Where? Where were you attacked? Come on,” Mithrandir firmly shook him. “Stay with me, young prince.”

“Mountain orcs,” Legolas managed to say, though what difference it made, he could not imagine. *Just let me sleep…Tathar. I want Tathar to come back.* His body was going completely limp, and his head drooped against the wizard’s shoulder. “Tathar…”

“Tathar? Ah, your friend, the one who…well, we’ll never mind that; this wretched poison has you pretty fuddled, doesn’t it? Hmm. If only I had stopped to get a horse on the way, curse this luck! On your feet, Legolas. You must stay awake.” Mithrandir made several attempts to pull Legolas to his feet, to no avail. There was a sigh, and Legolas dimly felt himself being shifted. “It seems this is the only way. I’m sorry, young Legolas, you’d be much more comfortable asleep, but I fear you would never wake. Hold on,” there came a stream of unintelligible words, and a bright light, and a strange alertness swept over Legolas. He blinked as the wizard’s face came into focus. “That’s more like it. Come now, on your feet. We must move fast.”

Weakly, Legolas accepted Mithrandir’s help and found himself able to stand. Whatever the wizard had done, it had staved off the exhaustion for now, but the pain had not lessened. He shivered violently, and Mithrandir draped his heavy gray cloak around the elf. “How far to my father’s halls?” he asked as the wizard walked him into the woods.

“Almost three days on foot. I’ll do all I can for you, young prince. It’s a pity we don‘t have a faster mode of transportation; you’d be better off in Rivendell under Lord Elrond‘s care.”

Legolas sighed his thanks, then concentrated on putting his feet where they belonged and not lurching as he walked. It seemed to him in his near-delirious state that he could still hear Tathar’s voice, speaking words of comfort and encouragement in the sounds of the forest. Suddenly, he heard the sound of a beast running through the woods, and recoiled in alarm. Mithrandir also heard it, and the wizard tensed, readying his staff. The sounds drew nearer, hoof beats. A horse. Mithrandir recognized them before Legolas could speak, and lowered his staff again. Out of the trees ran a beautiful brown stallion, stopping when it spotted the two walkers. “Mithrandir?” Legolas whispered.

“Well, now, here’s a stroke of good luck! Come closer, friend, we’ll not harm you! In fact, the prince here desperately needs your help!” The horse, reassured by Gandalf’s words, slowly walked up to them. “Well, aren’t you a beauty, and strong by the looks of you. Would you be so kind as to bear our weight for awhile? Ah, thank you. Up you go, Legolas,” the elf suddenly found himself astride the brown stallion with Gandalf behind him. “Hmm, with a little help from me, you could probably get us to Imladris in not much more than three days. And this young elf needs the skills of Lord Elrond. Perhaps--”

“No!” Legolas exclaimed, grabbing Gandalf’s arm as he was extending his staff. “Mithrandir,” he said weakly, not releasing his hold. “Please take me to my father’s halls.”

“Your father has excellent healers, Legolas, but you are very ill. I worry that none other than Lord Elrond will be able to save you. You are very far gone in this poison.”

Legolas frantically shook his head, fighting to keep his mind coherent. “No.” He managed to turn and face Mithrandir. “I must go home. Please take me to my father.” Seeing the wizard’s furrowed brows, he whispered, “Please.” There was no point in worrying about pride. He knew he was dying. If he could but see Thranduil’s face one last time, and ask his father’s forgiveness, what happened afterward did not matter.

Mithrandir’s perceptive eyes probed the elf’s fevered face. If he chose to ride for Rivendell, Legolas could not very well stop him, and yet…that was not what the young warrior wanted. *Trying to get home to your father. There is a change. And an important one.* “Very well. I suppose it’s more important to get you to shelter than anything else, and your Lady Eirien is a superb healer. Let’s see how fast our friend here can run. Bear us to the elven king, Master Horse!” He held Legolas upright as the brown stallion galloped into the woods. With luck, and a little of the wizard’s own contribution, they could be at King Thranduil’s palace by sundown.

It was just as well, Gandalf thought as the horse galloped swiftly through the trees, that Legolas had insisted on being taken home. He could feel the young warrior’s pulse growing faster and weaker as his breathing grew more labored. The poison’s advance was speeding, and it was unlikely Legolas would have survived even a greatly-sped-up trip to Rivendell. The Maia was beginning to worry he wouldn’t survive the trip home. He pulled the prince back against him, looking at his face. The spell he had used was keeping Legolas awake, but his dark gray eyes were glassier than before, and they focused on nothing. Gandalf wondered if the elf knew where he was. “Hold on, Legolas, hold on.”

In spite of the forced consciousness he was enduring, fever dreams had once again claimed Legolas’s mind. Weird, blurry images whirled around him, and though he could feel the rhythm of the horse’s strides beneath him and hear Gandalf’s words behind him, he could make no sense of anything. Delirium took him, but even in that state, he knew what he sought, and called out for his father. Many things that he wished to say spun through his thoughts. He did not know if he spoke them aloud or not. Strange, hollow voices and apparitions swirled around him, and Legolas flinched, frightened and confused. He still had not found his father. *I must find him…I must tell him…*

Then it all stopped. The pain seemed to diminish a little. The nightmarish visions parted like the stars in the Mirror of Galadriel. Legolas was lying upon a bed, the trees around him were silver, crowned with golden leaves, and he could hear the song of birds and elves in the distance. The breeze blew gently over his face, cool against the fever. But even in this peaceful place, he cried out for his father.

*Legolas!* A black-haired elven warrior, in Mirkwood colors, rushed to his bedside anxiously. *Ai, how did you get yourself into this state?*

*Tathar,* Legolas sighed, feeling his friend clasp his hand. *Orcs. They poisoned me.*

Tathar looked astonished, then shook his head in that pose of affectionate disgust he liked to assume. *Now why ever did you let them do that to you? You always had a tendency to punish yourself for faults, but that was going a bit far, don’t you think?*

Legolas laughed weakly. *I did not have much choice in the matter. Believe me.*

Tathar shook his head, and now his eyes were sad. *There is always a choice. You could have been cured by now. Must you always do things the hard way? Why do you make yourself suffer?*

*You don’t understand,* protested Legolas, staring at his friend. *I had to get home.*

*Yes, yes, I know, to confess your faults and throw yourself upon your father’s mercy. Why do you fear him, Legolas? He is your father, and no quarrel in the world will change that. * His brown eyes sparkling with amusement, Tathar laughed at Legolas. *I cannot imagine why you fear him, for he has always shown you more mercy than you have ever had on yourself.*

Legolas blinked, confused by Tathar’s words. Then he closed his eyes and sighed. *I wish you would not leave again. The world became so hard to bear without you.*

Tathar’s hand patted his shoulder. *Do not be ridiculous. I have never left you.* He snorted, *I could not if I wanted to, for you would never let me go. Ah, but I cannot talk; I suppose I would have been the same were our positions reversed.*

Tears filled Legolas’s eyes, *You would not have died had I not run away.*

A gentle cuff landed on his shoulder. *I thought I told you not to believe those poison phantoms! Do not listen to them, Legolas, the shadow of evil only seeks to take your heart. We make our choices, and we live with them. I knew long ago that your destiny lay along a much greater path than mine, but I chose to be with you. I would have gone with you if you had chosen one of those silly training missions.* Tathar laughed, squeezing his hand. Bending close to Legolas as though sharing a great secret, he added, *And I never regretted it. Not even in the end.* He rose from the edge of the bed.

*Tathar! Wait! Do not go!*

But he was vanishing into the dazzling light through the silver and gold trees. Legolas shivered, frightened in spite of the beauty of this place. Why had Tathar left him alone? A pale hand cupped his cheek and turned his face away from where Tathar had gone. Legolas found himself staring at the beautiful face of the Lady Galadriel, her eyes gentle, her white hood resting atop her golden tresses. *He has never left you, Legolas. Heed his words.*

*I am so tired, Lady.*

*We are all tired at one time or another. But it is not your time to sleep yet. You shall be home soon, prince of Mirkwood. And there is much left for you to do.*

*How will I be strong enough?*

The Lady Galadriel smiled. *You need not know how. Know only that you shall be. I told you before: as long as your hope survives, you shall find the strength for all your battles.* Resting a hand lightly upon his shoulder, she said softly, *The shadow shall not have you, elf warrior, as long as you remain true to your heart.* Bending forward, Galadriel kissed him gently upon the forehead. Then darkness seemed to swirl toward him, blotting out the golden woods. Legolas gasped, but Galadriel reassured him, *Fear not, Legolas. We shall meet again.*

Then the light and the vision was gone, and Legolas was back upon the horse, in front of Mithrandir. Pain and weakness struck him anew, and he moaned. Mithrandir urged the horse faster. “Hold on, Legolas. We are almost there.”

***

The elven king’s halls, several hours later…

Candrochon of Mirkwood was serving a stint of guard duty at the palace gate as the sun sank low in the sky. It was getting very chilly. He drew his cloak around him and listened idly to the song of the trees. It was then that he heard the sound of a rider, approaching the palace fast. The elf warrior tensed just as the other gate guards did. “A horseman comes,” one of them observed. “Openly. A messenger?”

“It’s a heavy horse--” Candrochon began, then the horse came into view, and his heart all but stopped. There were two on the beast’s back. The one in back was no trouble to recognize--the pointed hat and gray robes identified him as Mithrandir, trusted friend to all elves. And the one in front… “Ai! Is it…oh…by the Valar…Legolas?!”

The elf’s shock and alarm were not surprising, for even the closest of the prince’s kindred had difficulty recognizing him. He looked dreadful. His face and body were drenched in sweat, and his golden hair clung to his skin. A deep, bruised gash marred his forehead, and other welts and bruises stood out on his skin, which was pallid with illness. His eyes, normally so bright and alert, were glazed, red-rimmed, and confused, as though he were not quite conscious. As the horse ran up to them, Candrochon could hear how shallowly Legolas was breathing.

Before any of the shocked elves could speak, Mithrandir swung down. “Send for Crown Prince Berensul, if you would be so kind, young Candrochon. Prince Legolas must be seen by a healer immediately. He was attacked by orcs.” No words would come to him, so Candrochon simply threw open the gate and raced into the palace. He did glance over his shoulder as some of the elves exclaimed aloud; Mithrandir’s horse had bolted back into the woods. “He was not my horse,” the wizard told someone as he helped the staggering Legolas up the stairs. “He merely helped us out.”

*Strange,* Candrochon thought absently. *He looked like Sadron.* But as he entered the palace, his mind turned to other things.

Whatever spell Mithrandir had cast upon Legolas was wearing off, and the elf could feel himself losing control of his body again. Mithrandir had him braced upright against his side, and it was taking all his strength just to keep his feet under him. He vaguely thought he knew that elf who had gone for help, but the fever clouded his mind so that he could not be sure, or concentrate enough to figure it out. His mind did not even register where he was.

Then voices came anxiously from the distance, and the palace door opened. Crown Prince Berensul, with Candrochon beside him, took one step out of the palace and stopped dead in his tracks. Words and motion deserted him at the sight of his youngest brother. “Who…oh…Legolas? Mithrandir, how…”

Legolas did not react to Berensul’s presence; merely blinked weakly at the Crown Prince. Gandalf wondered if the young elf knew who his brother was. Taking control of the situation, the Maia said firmly, “We must get Legolas to a healer, my lord. There is not an instant to lose. Does the king know he is here?”

His eyes very dark and worried, Berensul said, “No. Quickly, we must get Legolas inside before my father does find out. Whatever confrontation is coming, this is definitely not the time.” He beckoned, and Mithrandir hurriedly supported the stumbling Legolas up the steps and into the outer halls of the palace. But no sooner had they entered than they heard a familiar voice coming toward another doorway. Berensul recoiled, close to panic. “Ai, Mithrandir--”

Deep in conversation with his Steward, King Thranduil strode through the door oblivious to the happenings in the hall. Absently, he took a cursory look around, and his gaze fell on Berensul, Gandalf… The elven king froze, taking in the haggard appearance of his son, held upright against Gandalf’s side under the wizard’s cloak, sweaty with fever and pale as a wraith. In a toneless voice, he said, “Legolas.”

For all the fever did to his mind, Legolas recognized his father. Thranduil’s unexpected appearance seemed to have turned everyone to stone, even Gandalf. But somehow, Legolas pulled himself from the wizard’s supportive grasp and staggered forward a few steps, where he stood facing the elven king. The young elf’s mouth moved, he tried to speak, but his voice failed.

Thranduil’s expression was too blank for even Mithrandir to read, but to Legolas, it seemed rather foreboding. Berensul rushed in front of the king. “Father--”

Thranduil strode forward, placing a hand on Berensul’s shoulder and firmly moving him out of his path, having eyes only for his other son, the one who had left him on bad terms six months before. Legolas stood where he was, helpless, bracing himself, as his father came towards him. A few desperate thoughts worked their way through the fevered haze. *He knows I am doomed if he does not let me stay. I must ask him to forgive me. Ai, to find my voice! Will he cast me off now?* Legolas wondered hazily as the world closed in. *Am I to die alone?*

It seemed that fate would not permit him to know the answer, for the last remnants of Mithrandir’s spell faded. Blackness swept up and formed a tunnel around him, pulling him in so that the last thing he saw was King Thranduil advancing forward, his dark eyes locked upon his son‘s, as the orc poison’s shadow finally claimed him.

***

Berensul and Gandalf watched in horror as Thranduil strode purposefully toward his youngest son. The same questions dogged both of their minds. Couldn’t he see Legolas was dying? Would he truly be so callous as to refuse his youngest son sanctuary? What did he intend? Legolas, for all his brave effort to stand alone before the king, had pushed himself too far. His eyes closed, his legs gave way beneath him, and he sagged limply toward the ground. Before either Gandalf or Berensul could react, King Thranduil covered the last few strides between himself and Legolas--and caught his son as he fell.

Sweeping Legolas up into his arms as if he weighed nothing at all, Thranduil stared for a moment at his son’s unconscious face, and many emotions flew across the king’s own countenance. Gandalf identified all of them as various forms of anguish. Then the elven king turned and started toward back down the hall, carrying Legolas. As though just remembering the others were there, the elven king turned and stared incredulously at Gandalf and Berensul, who had not moved. “Why are you just standing there?!” he demanded. To Berensul, he snapped, “Send for Eirien at once!” Breaking into a run, Thranduil carried his youngest child toward the royal chambers, shouting for the palace healers.

*****  



	25. Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

“Grief maybe had wrought it, and remorse. He saw tears on that once tearless face, more unbearable than wrath…

‘I sent my son forth, unthanked, unblessed, out into needless peril, and here he lies with poison in his veins.’”--Denethor  
The Siege of Gondor, Return of the King

***

 

 

Thranduil’s mind reeled as he bore his unconscious youngest son down the corridors of the outer palace. Time and reality seemed to have rearranged themselves, and it was as though he remembered nothing that had passed since Legolas had stormed out of the stables after that last quarrel. It seemed like that same night. The attendants came rushing to the prince’s chambers as Thranduil carried him through the door. “Where by the Valar is Eirien?!” he demanded, his throat tight with fear. “Find her! I need her!”

Trembling, he laid Legolas carefully upon the bed. It did not seem real. He had never seen his son’s eyes closed this way, and the dark lashes stood out starkly against his ashen skin. His pulse was weak and uneven; his breath seemed to grow more shallow with each passing second. Damp tendrils of hair clung to his sweaty face, and his forehead was burning hot to the touch. Elves did not come by fever naturally. “Oh, Legolas,” Thranduil whispered, his own heart hammering in his chest. “What happened to you?”

Berensul and Mithrandir came running through the door after him, wearing identical expressions of distress. Mithrandir saw that no healer had arrived yet and hurried to the ailing elf’s bedside. “We must awaken him, my lord. The shadow will pull him beyond a healer’s reach if we do not.”

Swallowing hard, Thranduil assisted Mithrandir in his attempts to rouse his son. The elven king had a strong belief in the maintenance of appearances, and at any other moment, he would have concerned himself with not showing weakness before the Maia. But in his long years, Thranduil had seen elves afflicted by all manner of injury and ailment, and he knew his child’s condition was grave. It was even possible that this malady might…the thought was not to be touched. Not again. And so Thranduil did not even notice how badly he trembled, nor how his voice cracked as he tried to awaken Legolas. Even if he had, it was unlikely that he would have cared.

Desperately, he shook Legolas, trying to elicit some kind of response. “Legolas? Legolas!” *This is not happening. This CANnot be happening! Not you too!* “Where is Eirien, Berensul?”

“She--she’s coming, Father. She should be here any minute,” Berensul’s voice was also trembling.

Thranduil seized one of the servants by the arm as he passed. “Dispatch messengers at once. Send one to Rivendell. Say that the King of Mirkwood begs Lord Elrond’s immediate assistance as a healer. Send another after Princess Limloeth. She is only a day or so down the trail, have her back as soon as possible. Go!”

“Yes, my lord!” the servant fled, white-faced.

It seemed that the hearts of all Mirkwood cried out against the possibility of the loss of another of Thranduil’s children. *No! No! Do not think of that!* But he was no fool, and the signs were very ill. *It cannot be! I cannot endure this again!* Legolas’s breathing was very weak, and growing worse. The unconscious state he was in…it was more like a coma than sleep. There was not a flicker of response to the outside world. His eyes were closed so tightly. *No! Legolas, open your eyes. Look at me! Hear me! Please!*

Where was Eirien? She was trained by Elrond; she would know how to cure him. *She must! A Elbereth, I cannot go through this again. I will not survive mourning another of my children. Legolas! Legolas, awaken! Ai, why did I ever speak so harshly to you that day! Please forgive me! This is my doing! My possessiveness. Wake up, Legolas! There is so much I must say…*

***

Gandalf heard an army of footsteps approaching down the corridor--in a loud, careless fashion very unlike elves--and before he could look up, he was all but shouldered aside. It was the Lady Eirien, Crown Princess, and a healer trained by Lord Elrond himself. She was the young prince’s best hope of survival. When King Thranduil raised his eyes from his son to speak to her, Gandalf was stunned. He had not been in Mirkwood at the time when three of Thranduil and Minuial’s children were slain in battle, but now the Maia suspected that the elven king must have looked then just as he did now. The desperation in the eyes of Legolas’s father tore at Gandalf’s heart. “Eirien?”

“Stand back, Father. Give me room.” The Princess was normally a soft-spoken, placid creature, but now her tone brooked no argument, and the elven king stepped quickly out of her way. But Gandalf heard her intake of breath as she hastily examined her brother-in-law’s unresponsive body. “How long has he been this way?” she asked the room in general.

“I found him on the edge of the wood this morning,” Gandalf spoke up quickly. “He was already burning and unable to move. It was only by a spell that I was able to keep him conscious until he reached the palace.”

“Help me, Mithrandir,” Eirien ordered. “We must rouse him.” She whirled back to the array of herbs and potions the other healers were bringing. Snatching up a vial, she attempted to pour the contents down Legolas’s throat. Unable to swallow, Legolas choked and gasped, and she cursed like a Rohirrim stable hand. Gandalf could see that the ailing elf barely had room to draw breath, let alone get a liquid down.

Thranduil’s eyes widened and he started forward. “Stand back!” Eirien snapped, in a tone that could probably render Galadriel docile. Bending over Legolas, she tried again to make him take the draught, then ran her hand along the muscles of his throat. All in the room could hear the son of Thranduil’s breathing becoming more and more distressed. Eirien’s expression remained fixed, and she moved swiftly around the bed, trying every smelling herb and potion that could be found to awaken Legolas or ease his breathing. But all could see the color beginning to drain from her face even as she worked frantically.

Gandalf’s heart sank as she shot him a quick, desperate glance. *She cannot save him. A Elbereth, no!* Berensul was against the wall keeping out of the healers’ way, but his eyes were wide with despair, and beginning to fill with tears. Eirien even tried forcing a remedy into Legolas with another sharpened thorn, but even the pain did not seem to have an effect. As the prince’s breathing slowed still more, Eirien’s breath caught; her hand touched Legolas’s chest again, and she stared in horror at what she felt. Gandalf caught his own breath in a great surge of grief, as Legolas’s breath rasped in his chest once more…then stopped.

All the assisting healers froze where they were, horror upon every face. None could make sense of it. Eirien dropped to her knees beside the bed and raised her eyes to the king. They brimmed with helpless tears, and in them was a silent plea for forgiveness for her failure. Berensul trembled as he sank into a chair, as though his legs would no longer support him. With all his heart, Gandalf wished it was within his power to turn back time, neutralize poison, heal a fatal wound…anything that would eliminate the death that now visited this family for the fifth time.

And then there was King Thranduil.

The elven king did not seem to see Eirien’s shame, or his son’s grief, or Gandalf’s sorrow. His eyes were locked, stunned, upon Legolas’s still, white face. “No…” Thranduil whispered.

Eirien choked on a sob, “Father--”

“NO!” Thranduil leapt forward and wrenched Legolas from the pillows, shaking the limp body desperately. “Legolas! Legolas, awaken! He is not dead! Legolas!”

With an effort, Berensul rose from the chair and pulled Eirien back from the bedside. She clutched her husband, choking back sobs of her own. Gandalf felt anguish rush through him anew, for the healers trained by Lord Elrond rarely lost patients. Legolas was Eirien’s first. Berensul raised a hand to Gandalf when the wizard reached out to try and stop the king’s hopeless efforts. It would do no good, but the Maia stood back as Thranduil attempted to force air into his son’s lungs. Staring at the young warrior’s limp body, Gandalf felt his own eyes stinging. *Forgive me, young Legolas. Would that I had come on horseback. Would that I had found you sooner, or carried more healing herbs of my own. Would that I had been able to do SOMETHING!*

Holding Legolas up in vain, Thranduil stared at his youngest son’s face, and the king’s breath began to choke from him. “Oh Legolas,” he whispered. Gandalf closed his eyes against the agonizing pain in the elven king’s voice, and respectfully stepped back toward the doorway. Thranduil did not seem to realize anyone else was in the room anymore. Tears slid from under his eyelids as he gently cradled his son against him, burying his face in Legolas’s golden hair. Holding Legolas closer still, Thranduil whispered something in his ear, so softly that neither the wizard, nor the weeping elves in the room heard what he said.

All at once, the soft sounds of the elves’ grief was shattered by a great, desperate gasp. Legolas’s eyes flew open, and he pulled back reflexively from his father’s grip in a frantic search for air. One breath, then another were pulled into his lungs, and his body went from dead limp to nearly rigid as elven stamina renewed the fight for life. For a split second, the witnesses could only stare, stunned. Thranduil looked into his son’s glassy, but open eyes, and whispered, “Legolas?”

Then Eirien jerked away from Berensul and sprang into action. Dashing a hand over her eyes, she snatched up a bottle of a particularly foul-smelling draught, diving for the bedside. Shock aside, Gandalf could see now that Legolas was still in trouble, and still burning with delirium. He flinched away from Eirien when she attempted to feed him the potion. “Hold him, Father,” she said to Thranduil. “He must take this quickly. He remains in grave danger.”

Thranduil snatched the bottle from her, pulling Legolas towards him. The young elf moaned in pain and confusion, still gasping for breath, and struggled against the arms trying to hold him. “Easy, Legolas,” Thranduil said soothingly. “Do not fight me.”

It was inconceivable that even an elf could recognize anything while running so high a fever, but it appeared to Gandalf that Legolas did relax slightly on hearing his father’s voice. No, there! He had not imagined it. Legolas turned his pale face towards Thranduil, and there did seem to be a flicker of recognition in his glazed eyes. “That’s it, little one. Come, you must have the potion. It will help. Drink, Legolas.” He raised the bottle to his son’s lips, and though Legolas’s breathing was still labored, he drank it.

“Give him all of it,” Eirien said from where she was mixing more herbs.

Thranduil kept Legolas swallowing the draught, pausing only to let him catch his breath and avoid choking him. At last, the young elf finished it, coughing and exhausted. His head dropped against his father’s shoulder. Gandalf leaned over the side of the bed and helped the king prop Legolas up. “He was wounded by a poisoned arrow. When I found him, he said something about mountain orcs.”

Eirien examined the arrow wound in the prince’s back, noting with an angry hiss the bloody welts left by orc lashes. “He is very far gone. I know many poisons that it could have been, but without knowing when and where he was taken, I cannot be sure.” Briskly, she turned back to the poultice she was preparing, adding more herbs and potions to it, and handed more herbs to the assistant healer who was helping with another draught.

Legolas moaned in delirious pain as Eirien cleansed the raw weals and secured the poultice to the arrow wound. “Do you think he will remember when and where it happened?” asked Berensul.

“Perhaps later, but at the moment I doubt if he remembers his own name,” Eirien said, laying a hand on her brother’s forehead. “Never have I seen an elf burn so.” She checked the draught being prepared, added more herbs, and carried it back to the king. “I know not which remedy to use, so this contains several.”

Thranduil took the vial, but tore his eyes from Legolas’s face to look worriedly at her. “So many? Is that safe?”

“Now it is more important to counteract the poison in his blood. The most the herbs might do is make him a little sick,” Eirien said firmly. “Give it to him.”

Nodding solemnly, the elven king gave Legolas the medicine. He did not have as much difficulty swallowing this one. It seemed to Gandalf that his breathing was also becoming easier. “I think it is working already.”

Eirien nodded, her hand gently touching Legolas’s neck. “The first draught eased his breathing, but that only bought us time. Father, has Lord Elrond been sent for?”

Taking a heavy breath, Thranduil nodded, rubbing his eyes. “Yes. And Limloeth.” Touching his son’s burning face, he spoke in a voice full of dread the question that weighed upon all their minds. “Will he live?”

Slowly, Eirien nodded. “I think the immediate danger is past, for now. But I fear we will not be able to counter the poison until we know what it is.”

“How will we find that out?” Berensul asked. “Do you think Lord Elrond will know?”

“Perhaps, but Legolas may be able to tell us sooner. It is safe for now, Father, he may sleep. We shall continue working to bring the fever down. Then when he is coherent, he may remember what happened. Knowing when and where he was taken would be enough.” Eirien ran thoughtful eyes over her patient, who was still being held in a sitting position, cradled gently against Thranduil’s chest. Though his eyes were open, they were glazed and barely responsive to the activity around him. The crown princess filled a cup and handed it to the king. “See if he will take some water. Then he should sleep.”

Thranduil took the cup and held it to his son’s lips. “Drink, Legolas,” he whispered when Legolas feebly resisted. “It is only water.”

***

At first, as yet another flow of some strange liquid attempted to force its way into his mouth, Legolas tried to pull away. In his fevered confusion, the foul-tasting stuff given him before had not been recognized as healing draught, and he feared it. But some vaguely familiar presence remained close to him, reassuring enough for Legolas to accept the rim of the cup at his lips.

This time it was water, cool, clear water that he recognized even in his delirium as something he desperately needed. His body and mind burned, but the cleansing liquid seemed to wash away some of his fear and confusion, enough to where he could remember something he needed to say. He had come a long way to find someone…who…where was he? It did not matter, for the one who…who?…the one he sought was here, he was sure of it. *Who was I seeking…what was I trying to say…why can I not remember?* Legolas wondered hazily. The cup was offered again, and he drank more, hearing a familiar voice speaking unintelligible words in his ear. He could make no sense of them, but the voice was so familiar, so comforting…

“Father?” he gasped out, his eyes trying bring the blurry figure before him into focus. Was it indeed him? It was, it had to be! And there was something he had to say…he could barely remember…Legolas tried to blurt out the message in his heart. “P-please, for-forgive m…” but the words could barely come together in his mind, let alone from his mouth.

Gentle hands eased him back against the pillow, stroking tendrils of hair from his sweaty face. “Shhhhh. Hush, my son. Hush. You are home.” That voice was so quiet and calming, triggering more vague memories. Oh, how he wanted the ability to speak, and he tried, but his father shushed him again. “It is all right. Be easy, there will be time for words later. There is much for us both to say.” A cool cloth blotted the sweat from his brow. “Rest, my son. I’ll not leave you. Sleep now, my Legolas.”

A hand gently covered his. Weariness claimed him, far less fearful now that he no longer had to fight for every breath. A less-threatening shadow rose up to cover him, and the words spoken softly around him lost their sense again. But the voice and gentle touch remained, even as his eyes drifted closed again, familiar and safe after the horrors the fever had inflicted upon his mind. They held him like a shield against the nightmares, and finally soothed Legolas into sleep.

***

Around midnight…

The odors of Eirien’s herbs and potions hung heavily in Legolas’s chamber, for they dared not open the windows in the winter. The hours slid past, broken only by Eirien’s quiet movement with the other healers as they sought more remedies. Berensul sat in a chair on the opposite side of the bed from Thranduil, watching his brother’s struggle for life. And never in his own life had the crown prince of Mirkwood felt so helpless.

He had known such emotions before, but then it had been possible to use rational thought to push them away. Even in the long process of grieving for his mother, brother, and two sisters--a process that still had not ended--he had known despite the typical guilt that he could not change events that had happened in other parts of the world.

*And yet here lies my youngest brother, my last brother. He lies right here before me, dying before my eyes, and there is NAUGHT I can do! Curse the Valar, and whatever power that determines our fates! Did something decide that still now not enough sorrow had been visited upon our family?* Berensul was very much of his father’s mind concerning the manner of conducting oneself--that display of weakness was to be avoided at all costs. Nonetheless, also like Thranduil, his family was the one area in which he could never detach himself.

It did not help that the crown prince had not been resting very well since sending for Mithrandir. The anxiety of waiting for the Maia’s arrival had kept Berensul from sleeping easily, that and a strange sense of foreboding that had dogged him in recent days. Berensul, the eldest of Thranduil’s children, had been alive for a very long time, and had also learnt to trust his intuition. Now at last, too late, he understood the meaning of the ill portents his mind had sent him.

*Oh Legolas.* His brother’s still face suddenly blurred, and the tightness in his throat threatened to overwhelm him. Berensul saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and a hand rested upon his shoulder. He had been so fixated on Legolas that he had not even noticed Thranduil getting up.

“It is late, Berensul. You should retire soon.”

Without looking at the king, Berensul smiled grimly, “Do you intend to leave him and sleep?”

“Nay. But that is all the more reason why you must.” Startled, Berensul turned to stare at Thranduil, and was startled by his father’s face. There was a change, hard to place. Exhaustion, grief, and desperate worry shadowed Thranduil, making him seem considerably older, but at the same time, something reminded his eldest son of his own younger days. He was trying to comprehend it when the king spoke again. “Even in this desolate moment, the needs of our realm must be seen to, my son. I cannot leave Legolas’s side while he is in this condition, and I know you wish to stay, but the business of the realm must fall to you.”

Astonished, the crown prince stared at the elven king. “You wish me to hold the court of Mirkwood?”

Thranduil smiled, albeit rather humorlessly, “We have intended for you to begin taking up such duties for some time, and now I fear the time has come. I shall be here if you need my counsel, but until your brother is recovered, our people shall look to you for leadership.” His eyes shifted to rest upon Legolas again. “I will not leave him.”

***

Early the next morning…

Gandalf noticed even as he wandered the halls that many of the elves in the palace stood vigil that night, some simply walking through the trees, and others congregating in small groups, speaking in hushed, worried voices. The thoughts of all were focused on the royal chambers, where candles burned in Prince Legolas’s room through the night. King Thranduil had sent Berensul to bed around midnight. Eirien had stayed, keeping a close watch on her patient. Thranduil had not stirred from the bedside, but had sat in a chair, his hand upon his son’s.

Gandalf had left him alone soon after Berensul left. Glancing back at Thranduil, whose anguished eyes never left his son’s face, the Maia had marveled at the events of the day. He wondered how many elves could even claim to have seen the King of Mirkwood so reduced. He was not in the habit of revealing ANY sentiments except those that furthered some advantage, such as a show of anger in his court. Yet what Gandalf had seen last night was raw, unconfined emotion, something that many elves--even his own children--had begun to believe he was no longer capable of feeling.

*So, Thranduil, perhaps your heart is not quite so frozen after all.*

How strange it was, to see the elves of Mirkwood at a time like this. Few strangers, even other elves, were welcomed unreservedly into Mirkwood, and Gandalf could say for certain that he was the only non-Eldar in all Middle Earth who might have the chance to behold the wood elves at a time like this. And revealing as the experience was, he wholeheartedly wished that he had never had this chance.

The elven king’s halls and the trees surrounding them echoed with an eerie, fearful silence. Gandalf had been among the elves at moments of mourning before, and then songs of lament and sounds of tears told all the lands of their grief. But this…this was different. Silence was the sound of their waiting, their uncertainty. Few words were even spoken, and those that were came in tense whispers. Time and life seemed suspended, as all Mirkwood awaited the fate of the youngest son of Thranduil and Minuial. The wood elves had already mourned three of the King’s children, and then their Queen, and time had done little to blunt that pain. It was always so with the Eldar. Eternal mourning of the lost was a price of eternal life. Silence cried in a loud voice of their fear, of their helplessness.

*Uncertainty is a fearful thing to elves,* thought the wizard. *I do not much care for it myself.* Knowing Eirien’s skills far exceeded his own knowledge, Gandalf had left Legolas to her care. And along with many others, the Maia wished there was more he could do. But all that remained to be done was waiting. *The hardest thing of all.*

Suddenly the silence was broken by murmurs of excitement among the waiting elves. Gandalf heard light steps darting down the corridor, and he turned to see Princess Limloeth coming down the hall at a dead run. The elven king’s daughter looked disheveled and anxious, as though she had spent the night riding hard (not surprising at how fast she had gotten back to the palace.) Seeing the wizard, she stopped only briefly, out of breath, to ask urgently, “Where is he?”

“His chambers, my lady,” said Gandalf, and watched her dash by him.

***

Limloeth did not even pause to wipe the dust of travel from her face or push her unruly hair into order before bursting through the door of her brother’s chamber. When the messenger from the king had arrived on a lathered horse, bearing tidings that Legolas had returned--barely alive--Limloeth and her escort had nearly run their own mounts into the ground on the trip back. The grim, frightened faces of the elves who greeted her arrival made Limloeth fear the worst, too dreadful to imagine. *I cannot live through this again.*

Finally reaching her destination, the princess of Mirkwood leaned heavily in the doorframe, catching her breath and trying to stifle the sobs that instantly rose in her throat at the sight of her little brother. And she had thought he looked ill when he arrived in Lórien thirty years ago! She stumbled slightly as she forced her legs to carry her to his side, terrified of what she might find. It took her trembling hand feeling the slow beat of his heart to convince herself that Legolas was yet among the living. His breathing was frightfully shallow, and though he was clearly unconscious, the faint tension of his face told his sister he was in pain. Feeling weak herself, Limloeth sank onto the edge of the bed, her hand gently cupping his cheek. “What happened to him?” she whispered.

From his chair at the opposite side of the bed, King Thranduil had looked up at her only briefly when she came into the room. Now, with his eyes focused once again on his son, Thranduil murmured, “Orcs. Somewhere on the plains, or maybe the outer forest. Mithrandir found him. He almost…I am glad you are here, Daughter.”

A moan from Legolas caused both Limloeth and Thranduil to jump in surprise. Her heart thudding in her chest, the princess watched her brother. They hoped Legolas was awakening, but though his sleep grew more fitful, he showed no signs of returning to consciousness. Puzzled, Limloeth placed a hand on Legolas’s forehead, and grimaced. “His fever rises.”

“He was delirious before,” said Eirien, motioning Limloeth aside for a better look at Legolas. Her blue-gray eyes darkened with worry. “But we must keep this fever under control until the poison can be neutralized.” Calling for the aid of the other healers, she began working.

While Eirien prepared more potions, Limloeth and Thranduil assisted her by trying to cool Legolas’s burning face and body with damp cloths. They could feel the heat radiating still more from his body, and his sleep grew more disturbed. Limloeth had to bite her lip to keep from weeping as her little brother fell into delirium. He raved of many things, some she could not understand, others that did not surprise her: his mother and their family, the brother and two sisters he had never met, the lessons of the years of training as a novice, memories of his journey with the war party. Very often, his fevered thoughts turned to the king. “Father…where are…alone…forgive me…”

Thranduil quickly leaned over Legolas, turning his head at the same time so Limloeth could not quite see his face. “I am here, Legolas. Rest easy.”

That seemed to calm him for a few minutes, but his body still burned, sending his mind back down the tortured, confused paths of fever dreams. “Tathar…do not go…was my fault…Tathar…” Thranduil’s face was still turned from Limloeth, but she thought she saw him wince.

All day long, Legolas’s family struggled to hold at bay the poison that tried to burn the life out of him. Limloeth was conscious of nothing beyond the feel of the damp cloths she sponged her brother’s body with, and his tormented, pleading voice. Once or twice his eyes opened, but there was no awareness in them, no comprehension. All he saw were the phantoms of fever, no matter how hard his sisters and father tried to reach him.

Late that afternoon, Berensul returned from holding court in the halls. Thranduil tore himself away from Legolas long enough to speak with the crown prince. “There was little business, Father. Most of our people are as worried as we for my brother.”

Thranduil nodded, sighing wearily. Limloeth glanced up at him as Berensul walked over to place a nervous hand upon her shoulder. “How is he?”

“We are keeping the fever at bay,” said Eirien. “But he has improved little. I have given him all the draughts that I dare. Now we must wait for Lord Elrond’s arrival.”

“Father…” came a weak moan. Thranduil quickly returned to his son’s side.

Limloeth stepped back from the bed, leaning wearily against Berensul. Like his father, Berensul had always been more inclined to display anger than any emotion that might hint at weakness. But now he trembled, and swallowed repeatedly. “I hope Lord Elrond arrives soon,” he whispered, in a voice filled with anguish. “I do not know how much longer I can bear to see him like this.”

***

The next morning…

The mist hung silent among the beeches and elms of Mirkwood, like a white funeral shroud. And still the wood elves waited for news. Gandalf had spoken few words with any since his arrivals, but sensed gratitude in the eyes of all for his return with the prince. The second dawn since that night had brought little improvement in Legolas’s condition. Lady Eirien was growing exhausted from her endless vigil at the prince’s side, but none of her remedies yielded results. The only hope now lay in the skills of the best healer in all Middle Earth. If he could not restore Legolas to health…

Suddenly the silence of the outer palace halls was broken by a commotion outside. Gandalf joined a small crowd of elves running outside, seeking the source of this opening in the tension. He spotted young Candrochon and Lady Merilin, Legolas’s friends, nearby as he came out onto the outer palace steps. A troupe of riders was coming through the gates, and a collective cry of surprised relief identified them. “Lord Elrond!”

The Lord of Imladris swung down from his horse, his eyes immediately picking Gandalf out of the throng of elves. To the group in general, he asked without preamble, “Is Legolas here?”

“He is, my lord!” someone said, in a desperate tone that spoke volumes.

“How bad?”

“Very! Please come in quickly!”

There was no way Elrond could have received Thranduil’s message and crossed the Misty Mountains and plains in less than forty-eight hours. Even Gandalf could not have managed that feat with Gwaihir the Great Eagle. “How did you know?” the wizard asked.

“Let me to him,” Elrond said pointedly, and explained himself as they hurried down the halls. “A letter arrived from King Thranduil to be delivered to Legolas a few days after he departed Rivendell. I suspected it was an urgent matter and set out after him, but we found signs in the mountains that he had been taken by orcs.”

Gandalf nodded absently, then urgently went on, “They poisoned him, but Lady Eirien cannot be sure what the identity of the agent. And we can determine nothing; Legolas is delirious.”

“I am not surprised. I found the remains of their camp; it was oil rendered from Monk’s Hood of the Dead Marshes,” said Elrond.

Gandalf winced; there were few plants in existence that could cause as much torment to a living being as Monk’s Hood. *Poor Legolas.* Had they forced him to swallow it, he would have died hideously in a matter of minutes. But the evil beasts were far too cruel and clever for that. “Is there aught you can do?”

“We shall see.” Lowering his voice, Elrond asked, “Where is King Thranduil?”

“With Legolas,” the wizard replied, and saw relief on the elven lord’s face. “In his chamber, this way.” He led Elrond into the room.

Thranduil sprang to his feet in astonishment. “Lord Elrond!” he exclaimed. Relief and confusion warred on the elven king’s face at the unexpected yet timely arrival. Relief won out, and he gestured urgently to Legolas. “Forgive the hasty welcome, my lord. My son needs your aid.”

Lord Elrond nodded in understanding and hastened to the bedside, his telling hands and keen eyes examining the still prince. Thranduil, and the Princesses Limloeth and Eirien stood to one side, obviously ready to offer their help with anything he needed. He beckoned to Eirien, “If you would assist me, my lady?” He rose then and met Thranduil’s eyes sincerely, “I will do all that I can.”

***

*All that I can, I only hope it will be enough,* thought Lord Elrond as he looked Legolas over. He had driven the company as hard as the horses could ride, following the prince’s trail, but as the days had passed, the Lord of Imladris had begun to despair. It seemed inconceivable that Legolas had made it all the way to Mirkwood after being poisoned so severely. To Mithrandir, he asked, “When did he reach Mirkwood?”

“I found him just within the forest yesterday afternoon, and we arrived at the palace in the evening,” the wizard’s expression grew thoughtful as though just processing what Elrond had said earlier, then he frowned in confusion. “You say he was attacked while still in the Misty Mountains? That cannot be possible; surely he would have made for Imladris rather than chance the journey all the way across the plains!”

Elrond shook his head, glancing at King Thranduil. “We discovered his bow and knives in the remnants of an orc camp on the eastern side of the mountains. There had--been a rockslide. They must have trapped him.” Both he and Mithrandir pretended not to hear the way Thranduil’s breath caught at those words.

Mithrandir looked at Legolas in amazement. “That is very strange. I had a mind to take him to Rivendell when I first found him, but he insisted on returning to the palace. He knew there was a much closer haven, yet he chanced the longer road to get home. He nearly did not survive the journey across the plains.” He turned his face back to meet Elrond’s gaze, but neither burdened the king of Mirkwood with their prying eyes. Thranduil had enough on his mind at these revelations.

Lord Elrond turned his attention back to Legolas. The young prince looked very ill indeed. The various draughts Eirien had administered had dropped him into a deep sleep, and his eyes were tightly closed. Dark shadows showed below them, and ugly bruises stood out against his pallid skin. It had been over a week since he had escaped the orcs, but the injuries had healed little thanks to the foul substance in his body. Raging fever left sweat beaded upon his burning forehead, and only Eirien’s determined ministrations had kept him from becoming dehydrated.

Opening a parcel of his own herbs, the Lord of Imladris prepared a draught to counteract the Monk’s Hood oil. “Will it still be effective?” Eirien asked him softly. That particular orc poison was rare; Mirkwood had not the proper herbs to neutralize it. And Legolas was very far gone.

But Elrond’s potion was strong, and the prince of Mirkwood had not managed to survive this long for naught. “I believe it will, Lady,” Lord Elrond replied, but he met Thranduil’s eyes as he spoke. And he distinctly saw the elven king fail to suppress a shudder of relief. “We must rouse him enough to take the draught.”

As Eirien worked, changing the dressings of his poisoned wounds, Legolas tossed and whimpered, clearly in a great deal of pain. The sounds hurt Elrond’s heart. He hastened to ready the potion, then bent over the bed, speaking softly to the feverish elf. Legolas relaxed slightly, and Elrond gently lifted his head up, his healing touch calming the feverish elf to where he could take the draught. Then the Lord of Imladris added more of the herbs to the dressings of his injuries, and examined the lash weals on his back. He allowed himself a sigh of relief. *Legolas is strong; he will recover,* he thought, but forced himself to wait before speaking such promises aloud. *In a few more hours, I will be able to say so with certainty. I would not dare take chances with his family.*

“How is he?” Limloeth asked softly from where she stood close to Thranduil.

Rising from the bedside, Elrond turned to the King and Princess. “The medicines must have time to do their work. In a few hours, we will know how he fares.” He ran critical eyes over Legolas, who had lapsed back into that deep, coma-like sleep. “He is as comfortable now as we can make him. The best thing would be to let him rest.”

Turning back to the prince’s family, he looked them over. Thranduil had returned to the chair beside the bed, his eyes fixed once again upon Legolas. *A Elbereth, do not let me fail in this. I fear to lose Legolas would also be a death sentence for his father.* It was true, the elven king looked very haggard. His eyes were red and shadowed, and the slight tremble of the hand that rested upon his son’s suggested that Thranduil had not slept or eaten since Legolas had returned. It must be Berensul who was holding the court of Mirkwood while the king remained here. Lady Limloeth was clad in riding clothes, and also did not appear to have left her brother’s side since she arrived. Eirien looked equally drained from her efforts. To Eirien, he said, “My lady, you should retire and get some rest. As a healer, you need your wits. I will watch over Legolas today.”

Eirien did not argue overmuch before going. Then, before Elrond even had the chance to open his mouth to suggest that other members of the family take some much-needed rest, King Thranduil shook his head and smiled, “Do not waste your time, my lord. I will not leave him.”

Elrond chuckled slightly, not the least bit surprised. *I cannot blame him; I know where I would be found if this were one of my children.* Aloud, he said, “As you will, my lord, but I would counsel you to sleep while you are with him. Legolas will not wake for some time yet.”

Thranduil sighed, looking still more weary, and presently, he nodded. Then he looked curiously at Elrond, “My lord, how did you get here so quickly? Were you abroad when my request for assistance reached you?”

Fighting the smile that tugged his lips, Elrond replied truthfully, “I never received that message, my lord. As it happened, I left Rivendell in pursuit of Legolas to deliver your letter to him. It came three days after he departed Imladris for Mirkwood, but I suspected your message was important.”

The urge to smile came again at the stunned expression on the elven king’s face. “You mean to say…Legolas was coming home before he received my letter?” Thranduil half-whispered, glancing in amazement at his sleeping son.

“Why, yes. Legolas arrived in Imladris with--one of my sons, and departed for Mirkwood the very next day. His friend Faron was due back from a patrol within a week, but Legolas would not be delayed.” With a wry chuckle, he shook his head. “Though I wish he would have returned to Imladris after escaping the orcs rather than risking the long journey across the plains. He might have spared himself a great deal of suffering if he had, for I was only three days behind him.” Thranduil was no longer looking at Elrond, but staring at Legolas as though seeing his son in a very different light.

Satisfied, Lord Elrond summoned one of the assistant healers. “I shall be back soon, if you would attend the prince until I return.” The healer took up a post near the doorway, consciously trying not to attract the king’s attention. Elrond glanced back from the doorway, seeing Thranduil seated in the chair with one hand resting lightly upon his son‘s, and suspected the elven king had already fallen asleep. He half-hoped Legolas might awaken before Thranduil did. *It would do him good to see this.*

Elrond had also re-assessed his opinion of Legolas during the journey across the plains. In such a condition, it seemed impossible that Legolas would be able to have make the crossing at the pace he did, but he had done it. AND reached Mirkwood still two days ahead of Elrond. The Lord of Imladris mentally shook his head. One had to admire that elf’s spirit. *When he has set his heart to a thing, there is naught that can turn him away or hold him back, even if it kills him.* He smiled to himself. *Like father, like son.*

***

Legolas was terrified, lost in a swirling, dark fog that kept him from seeing anything. Fearful voices and chilling phantoms reached out from the darkness to grab and tug at him, trying to pull him deeper. Pain, deep terrible pain, came in waves that broke over him with the blackness. He called out in desperation, not knowing exactly whose names he spoke, for the fever had taken most of the sense from his thoughts. So long, he had wandered alone, trying in vain to discover a way back to…wherever he had been before. He knew he had been somewhere else before, a place not horrific like this. A safe place. A familiar place. But though he could not remember it exactly, he was certain it was somewhere, if only he could escape this shadow, he would find it.

Moreover, from somewhere beyond the murk, he could hear voices calling back to him that were not specters. He could sense more than hear them, but just as he had known there was somewhere else that he should be, he also knew there was someone he had to find. Someone just beyond the darkness, if only he could breach it. At times they seemed so close, and he thought he could make out words through the shadows. Though they made no sense to him, they were comforting nonetheless--until they faded, and then he searched harder, crying out to find them again.

Now was one of those times. For awhile, the familiar presences had seemed very near, and he had struggled frantically to reach them. But something, some impenetrable barrier kept him trapped within the shadows, and he could not pass it. Legolas shivered in his dreams as the presences receded, abandoning him once again, alone in the dark. Would he be trapped here in this torment forever? Yet…this time was different. The pain did not come back as fiercely as before, and it seemed…the swirling black clouds were growing less. Was it possible that the shadows were finally releasing their hold on him?

Instead of fighting and trying to force his way out, as he had before, Legolas simply remained where he was as the clouds churned about him. Where before he had seemed to be sinking deeper, and struggled in terror, now he felt that he was floating, coming closer and closer to the end of this nightmare every moment. One who touched the warrior at that moment would have noticed that his body was beginning to cool. His fever was burning itself out at last, as the orc poison was conquered by the new potions in his body. For days he had burned, an unthinkable ordeal for one of the Eldar. But the tireless ministrations of those who loved him were finally bringing him back to the light.

Upward he drifted, passively accepting whatever awaited him. Above him, the shadows began to part, and light returned. Delirium faded. He was lying on his back, pain still racking him, still weak, but alive. Consciousness was coming back to him. There was someone near, no, several presences. And voices, the same ones that had distortedly reached him when he had been trapped in the darkness. For some time, he could not discern anything, but as his mind drifted closer and closer to coherence, the words began to make sense.

And he was able to remember who the speakers were. That voice was so familiar; Legolas struggled to pull his memories out of the shadows of fever. Who was…was it possible? Could it be that his father was with him? How? Where was he? He thought he recalled hearing Thranduil’s voice in his delirium, but had begun to think it was just another dream. Was it…was it possible that he was home?

***

“Legolas? Father, I think he is waking.” Eirien anxiously watched her brother-in-law’s eyes fluttering. He moaned weakly, but this time he did not seem to be falling back into delirium.

Lord Elrond moved beside her, placing a hand upon Legolas’s forehead. “Step back a moment, my lady, allow me. Yes, his fever is much diminished. He may at last be coming round.”

“Will he understand us, Lord Elrond?” Thranduil asked quietly.

“Perhaps, my lord. You may try.”

The elven king gently touched his son’s face, feeling at last that his skin had begun to cool. “Legolas? Can you hear me?”  
  
Legolas moaned and fluttered his eyelids again. Thranduil could feel his own heart pounding within his chest. So many times over the past four days since Lord Elrond had arrived, they had thought Legolas was awakening, just to have his fever soar again. When his eyes had opened, there had been no awareness or recognition in them, only torment, and it had aged Thranduil every time to see his child in that state. But there seemed nothing he could do to bring Legolas out of it. Lord Elrond had counseled patience, saying Legolas would awaken when his body was ready. But to the elf’s father, such words gave little comfort.

*Now at last it comes.* “Legolas, awaken! Return to us, my son!” Thranduil squeezed his son’s hand and waited.

Legolas’s breath was slow and even again, finally. His family watched anxiously as the prince slowly fought his way back to consciousness. After an agonizing few minutes, his eyes slowly opened, and Thranduil heard Limloeth choke back a sob of relief to see, at last, lucidity in his face. The gray eyes were still glazed with illness and exhaustion, but as they traveled slowly about to rest upon each person in the room, they revealed recognition. Legolas knew them. They came to rest upon Thranduil’s face, and for a brief eternity, father and son simply stared at each other, neither able to find the strength for words. Then Legolas took a deep breath and spoke in a faint, raspy whisper. “Father? Where am I?”

Thranduil had to jam his teeth into his lower lip to keep from dissolving into sobs right then. Behind him, Limloeth was not so successful. Lord Elrond stepped forward, “You are in your father’s halls, Legolas. You are home.”

With a shaky intake of breath, Legolas closed his eyes, apparently uncertain of whether all this was a dream. He suddenly opened them again, his expression turning anxious, and started to speak. “Father, I--”

“Easy, young one,” Elrond said, casting a stern glance at the others while preventing Legolas from sitting up. “You must not overexert yourself. You have been very ill.”

Quietly, Thranduil moved up to the bedside. “I will see to it that he rests, my lord.” Then he turned and met the half-elf’s eyes. “But I should like to be alone with him.”

The two elven lords locked eyes for a long moment, and slowly, Lord Elrond nodded. He beckoned to Eirien, Limloeth, and the other healers as he headed for the door. Limloeth looked about to protest, but Elrond firmly took her arm and led her out. One did not argue the Lord of Imladris. The door closed behind them, and silence echoed in the chamber. Thranduil sat back down in his chair beside the bed, gazing at his son’s pale, drawn face. He still looked so ill and weak; it had been such a close call. The elven king swallowed hard. “How do you feel, my son?”

Perhaps it was the fever, but the expression in Legolas’s eyes nearly broke his father’s heart. He seemed so desperate, nearly starting from the bed. “Father, please--”

“Careful, Legolas!” Thranduil exclaimed, gently pushing Legolas back to the pillows. He let his hand rest upon his son’s shoulder, trying to comfort him. After all this, did Legolas truly still doubt Thranduil’s willingness to forgive him? Did he still doubt his father’s love? *Then again, how much does he remember? Still, I must not risk him upsetting himself. There will be time when he is stronger. For now, he must rest.* Taking a deep breath, he said softly, “I know we’ve much to speak of, but you are still weak. There is plenty of time--”

“--No,” Legolas said, frantically seizing his father’s arm. The urgency of the grip startled Thranduil. “It has already been too long. Please, Father, forgive me.”

“I--”

Words seemed to tumble out, in a manner very unlike Legolas. *Who am I deceiving? I have not known what Legolas is like in a very long time.* But his son went on in an anguished voice, “I wronged you greatly, when we met long ago, and then again when I returned. Whatever our quarrel, I had no right to speak to you so. I did not mean it; I know why you raised me as you did. I was very unfair. Please forgive me, Father, I know I do not deserve it--”

The next thing Thranduil knew, he was crushing Legolas to him, in a grip as tight as he dared, muffling his son’s repentant words against his shoulder. Legolas raised his glassy, dark gray eyes to stare at his father’s face, almost as surprised as Thranduil was. The elven king smiled weakly against the sting of tears in his eyes, feeling the way his youngest child trembled with emotion and weariness. He shifted position to take more of his son’s weight, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. After a moment, he managed to say, “Hush now. You are still unwell; you must not distress yourself. Your brother and sisters would flay me alive.” There came a weak laugh in response, and Thranduil gently eased his son back to the pillows. “Legolas, I…” he trailed off, tongue-tied. *Are you too much of a coward to do what you know is right? To say what you know is true? He has given his apology. You know that you still owe one to him.* Thranduil swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Legolas, my son, of course I forgive you. But we have both said many things that need forgiving. I cannot be easy until you have accepted my apology.”

His face racked with guilt, Legolas shook his head. “Nay, Father, you owe me nothing.”

“Legolas--”

“No,” the elven king wondered if Legolas’s fever was rising again, but the young elf would not be put off. “You were right, Father, you were right about everything.” His voice was rough with uncontrolled grief. “I was reckless, and foolish. Every time. I never had the courage to face our conflicts, and it was Tathar who paid for it.” Squeezing his eyes closed, Legolas whispered bitterly, “I was such a coward.”

“No, Legolas--”

“--I was! Always, I ran away, rather than face my troubles,” tears of shame and frustration glistened in his eyes. “Resentments of the past clouded my every thought. I blamed you for so long, but the fault was truly mine.”

“Legolas, listen to me!” Thranduil said urgently, cutting him off. “You are feverish and overwrought; I’ll not have you sickening yourself again.” He placed a hand on his son’s forehead, frowning as he did so, for it was still far too hot. “You have made your apology, there is no need of a confession,” he smiled ruefully. “I understand.” Legolas’s breath caught, and Thranduil gripped his good hand. “I too wronged you. I have said and done many things I regret. Forgive me, Legolas.”

His eyes brimming, yet smiling, Legolas nodded, looking as though he were fifty again. Thranduil blinked rapidly to clear his own eyes, and glanced toward the door as Lord Elrond tapped on it. “My lord?”

“Come in, Lord Elrond.”

The Lord of Imladris opened the door and cast an understanding glance from father to son and back again. “I am sure you’ve much to speak of, but Legolas is still at risk of relapsing. You should rest now,” he said directly to the prince.

Thranduil nodded. “Quite right, Lord Elrond.” Legolas looked about to protest, but the elven king firmly stopped him. Squeezing Legolas’s hand, he said, “I know there is more you wish to say. Our family has long been separated, and I would know you again, my son. But first you must heal.”

“Yes, Father,” said Legolas, seeming to suddenly realize how tired he was.

Adjusting the pillows to make his son more comfortable, Thranduil took Legolas’s hand again and said softly, “Sleep now. I will be here when you awaken.” There was a weak answering squeeze, then the grip slackened, and Legolas’s head drifted against the pillows as he fell back into unconsciousness. His eyes had closed again. *By the Valar, I shall rejoice to see you sleeping normally,* thought the elven king. But it would take time, as Elrond had repeatedly impressed upon them all. Legolas would probably sleep on and off for days now. Speaking of sleeping, with that in mind, Thranduil leaned back in his chair and let himself be carried into elvish dreams.

***

That evening…

Berensul returned from holding court in the elven king’s stead to find Mithrandir, Limloeth, and Eirien outside the royal chambers. “Eregdos said Legolas is improving?” he asked hopefully.

His sister nodded, the relief on her face confirming what Berensul had prayed for. “He awakened this afternoon, far more lucid than he has been. He and Father spoke for a little while before Lord Elrond ordered them both to rest.”

They all knew what Berensul wanted to know when he said, “And?”

Mithrandir smiled, “The king remains at Legolas’s side, my lord. I think all is well with them.”

Berensul laughed with relief, “At last, as we are all thinking!” He sighed. “I wonder how much longer it will take Legolas to recover.”

“Even one as strong as Legolas will need time to heal from such a severe poisoning,” said Eirien. “Lord Elrond is with them now, and I will take up watch when he goes to rest. But we think Legolas will make a full recovery.”

“Thank the Valar,” said the crown prince. He grasped his wife and sister’s hands, feeling suddenly weary as the terrible tension of the past few days at last began to leave him. “I do not think I could have gone through this again.” Eirien and Limloeth nodded, understanding what he meant.

***

Gandalf watched the wordless exchange between the elves, and thanked the Valar himself for the many good fortunes that had allowed Legolas’s life to be spared. *For to be sure, had he died, Mirkwood would have been forced to mourn more than once in the coming days. It could easily have meant death for Thranduil as well, possibly even his siblings. Legolas finds himself in a strange fate, to be the youngest of a king’s children--traditionally of the least consequence--and yet it is him upon whom the hopes and dreams of so many depend. Born to save the life of an elven queen, and living to heal the wounds of his family made by the deaths of his brother and sisters. Thranduil should have named him Estel.*

Shouts down the corridor startled the Maia out of his thoughts, and then came the sound of running feet. What could it be now? Golwen’s voice floated down the hall, “Silivren! Come back here!”

Eirien and Berensul started as a fleet-footed, golden-haired elf child burst through a nearby door and sprinted headlong toward the royal chambers. Still more startling was the lack of mischief upon Silivren’s face; this was no childish prank. The determination in her blue eyes made her look like Legolas. “Silivren!” Eirien exclaimed, as she and her husband moved to intercept the girl.

But Silivren did not even slow down, and nearly knocked both father and mother off their feet as she dashed into the hallway--heading straight for Legolas’s room. “Sili! What are you doing?” Berensul, Eirien, Limloeth, and Golwen all charged after her, Gandalf trailing behind in amused curiosity.

Silivren stopped before the door and turned to face her pursuers. She folded her arms and fixed them all with a fierce little stare far too old for a child her age. “I want to see my uncle!” she announced clearly and coldly.

Motioning Golwen back, Eirien took the lead of the group. In a tone of motherly patience, she said gently, “We told you, Sili, Uncle Legolas is ill now. You cannot see him just yet.”

“Why?”

“Because…he cannot talk to you. He is asleep,” Berensul attempted to explain, glancing helplessly at the others. How did one explain to a child that a member of her family was practically upon his deathbed?

But Silivren, granddaughter of Thranduil and Minuial, possessed more than her share of elven understanding. The narrow-eyed glare she leveled at each and every one of them said all too clearly that she knew they were trying to hide her uncle’s condition. “So he can’t talk to me. That doesn’t mean I can’t sit with him!” With a defiant nod, she turned on her heel and stood on her toes to open the door of the youngest prince’s chamber.

“Sili!” hissed Berensul, trying to catch her, but the elfling ducked silently into the room before he could reach the door.

Gandalf and the others quietly entered the chamber after them. King Thranduil was sitting up in his chair beside the bed, and Lord Elrond stood at the end of the room, both peering in surprise at the small intruder. For her part, Silivren stopped a few feet from the bedside, irritated at finding herself too short to see the bed’s occupant. So, with a little huff of impatience, the child walked to where another chair sat empty at the opposite side of the bed. Berensul went to stop her, but Thranduil raised a hand, his dark eyes gravely watching Silivren as she carefully pulled herself up onto the chair and turned to look at her uncle.

Legolas’s life might be out of danger, but to look at him, one would not know it. The closed eyes and wan face of her beloved uncle should have sent a small child into hysterics, for Silivren had never seen any elf so ailing. But the daughter of Berensul simply stood there upon the chair, her eyes solemnly regarding the unconscious form, and then carefully climbed from the chair to sit upon the bed next to Legolas. Still completely silent, she bent carefully over Legolas and placed a gentle kiss upon his pale forehead.

The rest of Legolas’s family and Gandalf watched curiously. Slowly, Thranduil smiled at Silivren, and his eyes, so dark and shadowed with worry, began to lighten. He reached out and touched his granddaughter’s little hand. “Thank you, Sili. I think that will help your uncle Legolas very much.”

Sili looked up calmly from her uncle’s still face. Turning to cast a determined gaze on each person in the room, she announced clearly, “I want to stay with him.”

His eyes meeting Berensul’s over Sili’s head, Thranduil replied. “Of course. Perhaps that shall help him feel better sooner. Let us find you a more comfortable chair, and we shall both sit with him.”

A larger chair was soon brought, and the elven king settled into it with the little princess next to him, her hand lightly touching her uncle’s. Limloeth sat in the other chair with Berensul standing beside her, and Eirien took over for Lord Elrond. The Lord of Imladris met Gandalf’s eyes and headed quietly for the door. The Maia joined him. But just as Elrond reached for the handle, the faintest sound reached their ears, causing both to whirl around and every heart in the room to stop.

It was not even a vocal sound, rather the faint noise of the smallest-possible movement, the sound of a body shifting ever-so-slightly against the bedclothes that covered him. The watchers waited, and were rewarded by the sight of Legolas beginning to stir at last. No one spoke, not even Silivren, though she leaned forward next to Thranduil to stare at her uncle’s face. Thus it was she who Legolas first saw when he opened his eyes.

Legolas blinked. One would suppose that the small face of his niece was the absolute last thing he had expected to see when he awakened. But, after apparently determining that he was no longer dreaming, Legolas looked at Silivren, then past her at the faces of the rest of his family. Then he returned his eyes to her.

Silivren said simply, “Welcome home, Uncle Leg’las.”

Glancing at her little hand upon his, Legolas slowly smiled and returned her squeeze. “Thank you, Sili,” he replied softly. His eyes slid past her to rest upon Thranduil. “It is very good to be home.”

*****


	26. Those Words We Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

Lord Elrond laid a gentle hand against Legolas’s forehead as the prince slept. Although still far warmer than an elf ought to be, his body no longer felt as if a fire raged within. King Thranduil, his daughters, and granddaughter watched anxiously until the Lord of Imladris turned to them and smiled. “I know this seems a slow recovery, but fear not; he improves by the day. His fever is much-reduced, and he sleeps peacefully.”

“But his eyes remain shuttered,” said Thranduil, voicing the subject of most worry.

“Have patience, my lord,” Elrond reassured him. “They will remain thus for some time until the poison has left his blood. Monk’s Hood is powerful.”

“But he will recover completely?” pressed Limloeth.

“He will, my lady. It will take some time, but he will.”

***

A few days later…

Legolas had to bite his lip rather hard as Eirien changed the dressings of his poisoned wounds. The fever had dwindled to a mild discomfort instead of the suffocating heat that had denied him true rest for so long. Even now, his body was still too weak to remain awake for very long, let alone rise from the bed. It was frustrating. But at least the cessation of fever would give him the rest needed to get his strength back.

On the other hand, although he could feel the ravages of fever lessening, his other injuries proved more persistent. The bruises and lacerations from avalanche and orc whips were irritating as they healed, but the wounds of poisoned thorns and arrow remained incredibly painful. The arrow wound in particular burned and throbbed mercilessly until he could hardly bear to have it touched. But it had to be cleaned and dressed to heal, so he bore it.

Despite the gentleness of her hands, Eirien accidentally brushed the hurt, and Legolas winced, stifling a whimper of pain and drawing blood from his lip. His father, in conversation with Berensul near the door, turned concerned eyes toward Legolas. This was the first day that Thranduil had left Legolas’s side for more than a few minutes, and it seemed that he had been reluctant to do even that much. But some realm business was troubling Berensul enough that he had at last persuaded the elven king to come away from his still-listless son to attend to it. (It was clear that Legolas was still listless since he did not attempt to find out what the matter was.)

Eirien at least finished cleaning the arrow wound and replaced the dressing. Legolas relaxed, feeling shaky and sick with pain. Lord Elrond eyed him, “How do you feel, Legolas?”

“Well, thank you, my lord,” Legolas lied. He did not see Limloeth and Eirien rolling their eyes at each other.

Elrond’s mouth twitched slightly. “Then I suggest you take some rest and speed your recovery still more.”

Though his pride stung, Legolas already was gritting his teeth with the effort of being in a sitting position. To observers, the young elf had turned as white as a ghost. Resigned, he nodded and lay carefully back down to avoid jarring his shoulder. No sooner had his head touched the pillow than a great weight began tugging at his eyelids.

*No! If I must sleep, I shall do so in the proper fashion of an elf! Not like a mortal…* his mind wandered as his eyes tried again to slide closed. He blinked them stubbornly open.

“Legolas?” Thranduil was beside him again. How he had gotten there, Legolas did not know. Berensul, Eirien, Elrond, and Limloeth had gone. “You must rest well if you are to heal.” He touched his son’s good shoulder and sat down in the chair next to the bed.

Legolas tried to speak, to tell his father that he need not spend every moment there, but fell asleep before he could get the words out.

***

A few more days later…

Eirien came into her brother-in-law’s chamber and gasped in surprised as a cold draft struck her. She recovered quickly and barked, “Legolas!”

Her husband’s youngest brother--still weak if greatly improved--was standing on his balcony in the frigid chill of January. He had only regained the strength to rise from bed three days before--and since then had proven the most trying patient Eirien had ever cared for. The crown princess and palace healer stormed out onto the balcony. “What do you think you are doing?!”

Turning rebellious gray eyes toward her, Legolas said, “I needed fresh air. That room is stifling.”

Eirien seized his good arm and snapped, “It is freezing out here! Are you TRYING to give yourself a relapse?”

Unrepentant, Legolas jerked away and fired back, “I begin to prefer a relapse to being driven mad by this constant nagging! I am fit enough to leave my bed without being fretted over like an invalid!”

Bodily yanking him inside and flinging the door closed, Eirien fumed, “But you are not fit to stand outside in the dead chill of winter with your wounds still healing.” She scowled furiously as she saw him suppress a shiver. He had probably been gritting his teeth against the cold for some time, but had been ruled by stubborn pride. *Silly, foolish, headstrong boy!*

Legolas shuddered again, and Eirien glared harder at him. “Undress,” she ordered curtly. “Put on a warm tunic and get into bed. AT ONCE!” she snapped imperiously when he started to argue.

His attempted scowl was made less threatening by the visible shaking of his jaw. Had he opened his mouth, his teeth would have begun to chatter. With a quiet oath, Legolas did the healer’s bidding. After a moment, as Eirien brought the braziers closer and stirred up their fire, he was beneath the blankets trying to hide the betraying tremors of his body. Eirien looked at him then and found a smile threatening to quirk her lips. *Just like your brother,* she thought, her ire lessening. She tossed another blanket onto the bed and hurriedly made him a cup of heated broth. Though he looked decidedly sulky, Legolas drank it without further protest.

A short time later (after the olgalas in the broth had done its work), Lord Elrond entered the room to find Eirien taking the cup from Legolas’s limp fingers. Noticing the lingering chill in the air, and the Mirkwood healer’s frustrated expression, the Lord of Imladris asked, “Problems?”

Eirien looked at him for a long moment, then heaved a massive sigh that made him chuckle. “NEVER have I had so impossible a patient! He is determined to give himself a relapse.”

Guessing from the evidence what Legolas had been up to, Elrond felt the sleeping elf’s face carefully. Though his nose and ears were a bit cold, there was no sign of the heat of fever returning. He smiled at Eirien. “Patience is a quality seldom found in the sons of Thranduil, my lady, as you well know.”

She chuckled in agreement, “Until you have been married to one, my lord, you cannot possibly imagine!”

***

A week or so later…

Legolas walked silently through the corridors of the outer palace, carefully avoiding any place where his family might happen to be. The end of his affliction by the Monk’s Hood poison had only led to him being subjected to a new torment:

*Fathers, sisters, brothers, elven lords, and wizards!*

He leaned against the wall, balling his fists. *So little time has passed since my one thought was returning to them.* But now, after weeks of their incessant fretting, hovering, and pestering, Legolas thought he might gladly brave the blizzard raging outside if it meant getting away from them.

Once Legolas had been up and walking, his father had returning to holding the court of Mirkwood. But that had only led his siblings to hound him still more, either of their own accord or at the elven king’s instigation. (Probably a combination of the two.) And Legolas was always the first thing on Thranduil’s mind as soon as he returned from the court.

*I begin to miss the days when we were not on speaking terms,* he thought. Then he sighed, repentant. Of course, his father was concerned about him. It was not as if Thranduil did not have a right to be. *You spent thirty-five years running from him and nearly got yourself killed coming home. Why does his worry surprise you?* he asked himself. It was amazing, really. Thranduil was not the type to let grievances go, but Legolas’s condition must have shaken the elven king badly, for he had not demanded any kind of satisfaction for the manner of their last parting. In fact, he had not mentioned it at all. At times, Legolas was grateful for this, but other times he felt the weight of debt still heavy on his heart. Yet another thing that added to his frustration and irritability.

As for the rest of them…Legolas remained obstinate. Every elf in Mirkwood acted as though he would shatter like glass if left alone for five minutes. Even now, he could hear them searching for him. True, he was still not fully recovered, but their prodding wearied him more than anything. *I would be able to recover far more quickly if they would but leave me in peace!*

Berensul seemed to have appointed himself (or had been appointed by his father) to the task of hovering over Legolas when Thranduil was otherwise occupied. Limloeth was even worse, sticking to his bedside as though attached by a chain. She seemed to have taken the illness as a call to mother Legolas at every opportunity, and if he tried to escape the smothering attentions of either of them, Eirien would immediately dose him unconscious. Though Elrond did not drug him (at least not as often) the elven lord’s penetrating gazes and knowing half-smiles grated on Legolas’s nerves still more. It was the same with Mithrandir.

Footsteps startled Legolas out of his brooding, and he stepped quickly into another doorway as Eirien passed by. This little escapade was likely to end with him being hauled back to his chamber and drugged again. *The poison’s fever did no lasting damage to my mind; why do they persist in making me sleep my life away?*

It was true that he still tired easily; in fact, he was beginning to weary now. *Which means if any of them find me, I will not be able to put up much of a fight before I am dragged back to my rooms like an escaped fugitive. Eirien I might stand a chance against, but Berensul or Lim would drop me.* Why oh why did his family not trust him to look to his own health? *I would not mind resting in my chamber were it not for their plaguing!* He sighed, then pressed himself silently against the wall as yet another searching elf passed. He knew he should return soon before weariness truly got the better of him and gave them all one more reason to fuss. Perhaps it would not occur to them to search in his room. With that in mind, he stealthily made his way back to his chamber.

He was thoroughly pleased with himself to reach his door without a single elf catching him. *They think me feeble, but I can still evade the lot of them!* Legolas heaved a soft sigh of relief and entered his room, only to jump a mile at the sight of Limloeth standing by the window. His elder sister wore an expression of combined irritation and maternal patience--both of which irritated Legolas greatly. “I knew you would try to sneak back here,” she said smugly, turning to where Eirien kept her sleeping draughts.

Intense, defiant anger burst from within, actually making Legolas tremble. “Do not bother, Sister,” he said in a tightly-controlled voice.

“It is Eirien’s orders,” she replied, pretending not to notice his fury as she held out the cup.

“I need it not,” he said furiously, but keeping his voice low to avoid bringing the entire palace down on him.

In a condescending tone, Limloeth pressed, “You must rest if your body is to heal, Legolas--”

“--Oh, by the Valar, ENOUGH!” Legolas exploded. “You treat me like a sickly, mind-addled child who has not the wits to care for himself! I know what my body needs, Limloeth, and I would rest more easily if you, Berensul, Eirien, and all your minions would leave me in peace!”

Becoming angry in her turn, Limloeth answered, “Sometimes, Legolas, I do not know if you have the sense the Valar gave a dwarf! We are your family, and we want what is best for you--”

“--I will be the judge of what is best for me now; I am no longer delirious!” Legolas shot back.

“Legolas--” Limloeth’s eyes flashed, but then she seemed to gain control of herself, resuming that pose of patience that only irritated her brother further. “You have been very ill and you still are not fully recovered. It need not be so difficult.” She held out the cup again, her eyes earnest and caring.

Legolas took it with a scowl. Resisting the urge to either fling it through the window or into his sister’s face, he settled for pouring it out and slapping the cup down hard upon the table. Limloeth glared at him. “I said,” he repeated in a low, cold voice. “I need…it…not.”

“Brother, stop being so childish!” she said. “You cannot imagine how we have worried about you. You were near death when you arrived and then delirious for weeks--”

“--I know!” Legolas exclaimed, wanting to throw up his hands in frustration. “I was there, if you recall! But I am delirious no longer, and it is high time you ceased this absurd mothering. I am fit to care for myself again; I do not need you and Eirien waiting on me hand and foot!”

“Legolas, you have hardly shown a moment’s rational thought in thirty-five years! Sometimes I wonder how long it will take you to discover an early death if someone does not protect you from yourself and your endless rebellion against us all--”

That did it. Before Limloeth knew what was happening, Legolas seized her arm and propelled her out the door, so hard that she stumbled when he released her. Berensul and Eirien, alerted by the raised voices, had been coming down the hall, but were also knocked off balance when Limloeth careened into them. “Get out and stay out!” Legolas snapped at the trio, then slammed the door.

***

Berensul untangled himself from his wife and sister and headed for the door, fully intending to force it open and crack his brother over the head if necessary. But he was stopped short by Legolas’s voice, speaking in Quenya, commanding the door to hold fast. It was a magic that all the House of Thranduil knew, but rarely used by any. The door upon which the spell was placed could only be opened now by Thranduil, or the one who had cast it, namely Legolas. Berensul turned to the others with a helpless expression.

“He has completely taken leave of his senses!” whispered Limloeth.

“What now?” Eirien murmured. “None but Legolas can open the door.”

“Father can,” said Lim, lifting her chin resolutely. “I suggest we pay him a visit.”

***

King Thranduil was discussing recent orc activity with Lord Elrond and Mithrandir when Berensul, Eirien, and Limloeth requested an audience. The moment the trio entered the Great Hall, looking as if their beds had been short-sheeted, Thranduil suspected he knew what it was about. Lord Elrond’s lips quirked and Mithrandir discreetly hid his smile behind his hand. The Lord of Imladris and the Maia rose. “I think we had best leave you now, my lord,” said Lord Elrond.

“No indeed, Lord Elrond,” spoke up Eirien. “Your help might be of use as well, Mithrandir.”

Shooting Thranduil a meaningful look, Elrond replied, “Nay, my lady, something tells me this is a matter best kept within the House of Thranduil.”

“I quite agree,” said Mithrandir, and the two departed the throne room. The faint sound of laughter floated through the closing doors.

Thranduil motioned for his attendants to leave as well, and when they had gone, turned to his children. “What is amiss?”

“Legolas!” spat Limloeth in an utterly exasperated tone. “For every day that his strength returns, he rebels against the healers’ orders still more. Today he escaped his chamber for three hours and now has locked himself inside alone and used the old spell to seal the door!”

The elven king blinked, and then felt a sudden urge to laugh. The outrage on his son, daughter, and daughter-in-law’s faces was comical. *That is the most willful Legolas has ever been.* He kept his composure, but smiled as he said, “I think perhaps Legolas is well enough to care for himself. We need not stand over him every minute like an unweaned babe.”

All three of them began protesting at once. “But, Father--”

“He is not yet fully recovered--”

“That boy is going to sicken himself again if someone does not look after him--”

“--Limloeth!” Thranduil held up a hand sharply, cutting them all off but glaring chiefly at his daughter. To Berensul and Eirien, he said in a calmer voice, “Leave us. And do not go knocking and harrying your brother’s door. Leave him be.”

Indignation on their faces had been replaced by puzzlement, but they obeyed him. Limloeth watched them go, then turned back to Thranduil with equal confusion in her eyes. “Father?”

“I know you mean well, child, but Legolas is neither a boy, nor a cripple. He will recover better if he is left in peace.”

“I am only trying to--”

“Help him, protect him, shelter him. Keep him from hurting himself with his youthful inexperience and impulsiveness. I know, Daughter. I know well. But your brother clearly does not look favorably upon such treatment anymore.”

“That he has made clear,” she muttered with a little shake of her head. Then she took on that expression of patient understanding that reminded Thranduil of his wife (specifically, of her not-so-endearing habit of thinking herself right in all things.) “But I fear Legolas does not always know what is good for him.”

“And you do?” Thranduil fixed her with a penetrating stare. “Be wary, Limloeth, for that is dangerous ground to tread where Legolas is concerned.”

“I--” Limloeth started to object, then faltered. Thranduil saw many thoughts run through her brown eyes, and when she met his gaze again, he felt for a moment that he had looked into a mirror. Looking down again, she murmured, “These are such hard years. I only wanted things to be easier for him.”

“As did we all. But we cannot face the trials of the Warrior’s Coming of Age for him. You can manage him no longer, my dear. We must all stop attempting to usurp and second-guess his decisions. Let him make his own choices, and mistakes, if necessary. That became his right thirty-five years ago. I realize now that it is high time we all recognized it. ”

Looking a bit sheepish, his daughter said, “I fear he is rather put out with us.”

Chuckling, Thranduil beckoned to her and headed out of the throne room. They found Berensul and Eirien waiting outside. “I will go and speak with Legolas--WITHOUT an entourage,” he told them firmly. Then he left the cave under the mountain and returned to the outer palace.

The elven king could easily have commanded the door of his son’s chamber to open, but instead lifted a hand and knocked. “Legolas? May I enter?”

“Yes, Father,” came the quiet reply, and he heard his son’s voice speaking in Quenya, releasing the spell on the door.

Legolas opened the door to admit his father, and Thranduil noticed his slightly bleary eyes. “Forgive me, my son. I did not realize you were asleep.”

“It is unimportant,” said Legolas, not meeting Thranduil’s eyes. With a wry smile, he added, “I feel I sleep too much as it is.”

Thranduil smiled. “How do you fare?” he asked, indicating Legolas’s shoulder.

“It aches at times, but that is all. You need not worry,” his son added, looking slightly defensive.

“I am pleased to hear it, and still more when I see you back to normal again. These last weeks have been a fearful time for us all.”

Legolas looked quite startled. *Expected a scolding, didn’t you?* Thranduil thought with amusement. But his son’s eyes lowered slightly, “I should not have been so cross with them. I know they only desire to help.”

Nodding, Thranduil added, “And two of them are now parents, while the other has mothered you and Belhador for much of your lives. Such habits die hard. But fear not, Lord Elrond and I agreed you no longer need a healer at your bedside at all hours, nor confinement to your chamber.” The intense relief on Legolas’s face nearly made him laugh aloud.

Legolas smiled, “I promise not to start practicing with my bow just yet.” He and Thranduil shared a chuckle then, and it seemed as if thirty-five years of vexation and resentment fell away for a moment.

Almost. Smiling, Thranduil told him, “Have patience, my son, you will have time to restore your archery prowess in the coming days, and soon you will Mirkwood’s champion once again. Now you are home and all is forgiven.” He saw a shadow come over his son’s face just then. “Legolas?”

“Nothing, Father.” Though Legolas was clearly dissembling, Thranduil caught himself and managed not to press the issue. *He is grown. I need not know all his personal affairs if he does not wish to share them.* Nonetheless, the admission made him ache inside.

***

Three days later…

Legolas knew that despite the insistence of his father and Lord Elrond that he be given his freedom, Lim, Eirien, and Berensul would be on him like dwarves on a mithril vein if they caught him. So, although his body still felt weaker than he would have wished, Legolas fled the outer palace as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He had languished long enough in his rooms. Too long. For all that time, his heart had burned with the amends yet to be made until he thought he might go mad.

It would be folly to go far from the warmth of the palace in February, but Legolas did not intend to be outside for more than a few minutes. For his destination was neither the stables nor the training fields, but the inner palace within the mountain. Specifically, his father’s Great Hall. Even for that short walk across the green and over the bridge, he donned his winter cloak, grinning to himself as he imagined Limloeth and Eirien’s voices admonishing him.

It had been nearly a year since Legolas had crossed the bridge over the Forest River into the cave to speak to Thranduil, but this walk did not have the air of dread that he had felt then. Rather, a sense of determination, bound by honor and a good measure of guilt, drove his steps this time, and there was no urge to retreat. There would be no flight this time. He paused by one of the warming braziers in the main tunnel until the bite of winter left him. His siblings would eat him alive if he took a chill.

He hesitated for a moment outside the wooden doors of the Great Hall, gazing up at where they touched the ceiling. The throne room still seemed vast, but to the child who had first beheld it, it had seemed massive. He snapped back to reality as the doors swung open. “Prince Legolas!” announced the herald.

King Thranduil, wearing his winter crown of evergreen and holly, rose from his throne. Legolas had deliberately waited until near the end of the day so as not to disrupt the regular court business. As it was, only the elven king’s attendants were in the Hall. Sounding faintly surprised, Thranduil beckoned him in. “My son?”

The elven king’s family were granted certain liberties when it came to addressing him, but today, Legolas took advantage of none of them. He advanced and stopped well before the throne, as any subject would who sought a favor from the king. But then, instead of merely bowing, Legolas dropped to one knee in the fashion of a supplicant. Over time, such a position had come to have a more serious meaning: that the petitioner was one who had committed some wrong and sought the king’s mercy. Raising his eyes, Legolas spoke quietly, but steadily, “If I might have a word, my lord.”

The soft intakes of breath behind him and the way Thranduil stiffened indicated that none had missed the prince’s extreme formality. Thranduil stared at Legolas for a moment, obviously confused, then looked up at the other elves and said briskly, “Leave us.” Legolas heard them go, but did not move or take his eyes off his father’s face.

***

Along with great puzzlement, Thranduil also felt a sense of sudden panic even as the doors closed on his servants. What could his son’s strange actions mean? Looking down again, he forced himself to calm, and said evenly, “Rise, Legolas.” His son did so. How to address this…he could think of no response except for directness. “What is it you ask of me?”

Never his son’s face been so composed, but when Legolas met Thranduil’s gaze, his eyes told the king all he needed to know. The remorse in them nearly made Thranduil step backward, and his mind cried, *What is amiss now? I had thought it was over!* Legolas’s reply confused him still more. “I ask your forgiveness. As my father and my king.”

*What?!* Feeling an unpleasant tightness inside, Thranduil answered, “My son, I realize that your illness made it difficult for us to speak long of our…past conflict, but be assured, you received my forgiveness then. Unconditionally. You need not apologize again. I need no formal repentance.”

Now Legolas looked puzzled in his turn. “Again?”

Thranduil stared at him. “I thought we had…made our peace…when we spoke several weeks ago.” Though he made a valiant effort not to show it, Legolas was clearly confused. A nagging suspicion in Thranduil’s mind came out in a half-hopeful, half-fearful question. “You do not remember?”

His son’s eyes dropped as though searching through the jumbled memories from his illness for some remnant of their talk, but when he looked up again, there was still-deeper sorrow in their gray depths. “Nay. I do not.”

Thranduil’s mind whirled with many thoughts. Some were grievous at having lost the memory of those all-important words with Legolas, when they had bonded as they had not since Legolas had been very young. And he cursed himself, for a part of him could not deny feeling relief that Legolas could not remember seeing his father at his weakest. It was not Thranduil’s nature to display emotion as he had when Legolas had been near death, and yet…*What sort of a father is ashamed of caring for his son, ashamed to admit fear even in the face of his death?*

Legolas was watching him, so Thranduil said, “I am sorry that you do not recall it, but your fever was still very high at the time. We did speak, and made our apologies. Our grievances were forgiven.”

With a look of real dismay, Legolas murmured, “And I remember naught of it.” He seemed almost angry with himself.

“Legolas,” Thranduil spoke urgently. “It was the first time you had awakened without being delirious. The fever was no fault of yours.”

Smiling humorlessly, his son replied, “I doubt if my words were very coherent.”

“I understood you perfectly,” the elven king said even as his throat tightened with the memory.

Legolas looked away, uncertain. After a long moment, he looked back at his father with eyes bright with determination. “All the same, Father, I fear I cannot be easy until I have made you a proper apology for my failure in my duty as your son. One that I can remember,” he added wryly. Before Thranduil could protest, he went on, “Nearly every time we have met over the past thirty-five years, I have treated you in a fashion unfit for either a son or a prince. My childish resentments gave me no right to forget the loyalty that I owe you. My behavior when we met on the plains and when I returned was inexcusable.” Dropping his eyes, he murmured, “I am deeply ashamed. I beg your forgiveness.”

It took Thranduil an even longer moment to trust his own voice. At last, he replied, “Then you have it. As I already told you, I forgive you freely. You owe me no further penance.” He could have dismissed Legolas then, knowing that his son’s conscience had been eased and his sense of honor intact, but his own would not so easily end the conversation. *He remembers nothing. We each wronged each other, but he does not remember my words to him. His honor would not let him rest until he apologized to me…* Before he could change his mind, Thranduil said, “If indeed you remember naught of what we said, then I must also repeat my words to you. I too have been burdened by the wrong I did you…and Tathar’s memory.” He pretended not to see the way Legolas flinched. “I dishonored you both with my words, and for that I must ask you to forgive me.”

In a very soft voice, Legolas answered, “Yes, Father.” Lifting his chin, he added, “And I pledge to never forget my duty to you, my father and lord.”

Thranduil placed a hand gently on his son’s shoulder. “May we never part on ill terms again.” Their eyes met again, and at last, there was a clarity in them both. The past words could not be altered or erased, but now they might finally look to the future. “I am very glad to have you home, my son. I have missed you.”

“And I you.”

“Come. The day’s work is done; let us return to our family.”

***

Any who thought that the elven king and his youngest son would be free of conflict after that were sadly mistaken. For although the quarrels of the past were forgiven, it was not the last time Thranduil and Legolas would find themselves at odds.

Quite the contrary.

For they remained of different minds, yet with a similar temperment, and consequently clashes of ideal and will became a regular occurrence in the elven king’s halls.

***

Not long afterward…

“It is not unreasonable, Father, nor dangerous!”

“Legolas, you know well my feelings concerning men. I would not have dealings with them under such circumstances as you propose.”

Legolas leaned against the wall of the hallway outside the royal chambers and mentally cursed his father’s narrow-mindedness. Then, why did it surprise him? He had always known Thranduil’s opinion of men. *It is because I have had dealings of my own with them.* His experience in Haloel had convinced him that men varied as much as elves, and no generalization could describe them all. Certainly no condemnation. *I wonder how Father would react if he knew I spent much of the past year in the sole company of Isildur’s heir.* The thought threatened to make him laugh aloud even as his father glared at him.

Thranduil was speaking again. “Silivren is thirty years old. She will soon be tall enough for a horse, and then she can learn to ride. You were able to wait until then.”

“Sili has no friends her own age as I had. If she is forced to amuse herself alone she shall only get into trouble. Trading for a pony will not threaten our security.”

“It is out of the question. She shall have to find other ways to amuse herself until she comes of age.” Thranduil glared harder at his youngest son. “Do not defy me in this. The subject is closed.”

With a curt nod, Legolas turned and walked away, rebellion still flashing in his gray eyes. But he had known even as he broached the subject that it was a very long shot. Thranduil watched him go, fuming at his impudence. A soft chuckle made him turn. Berensul had evidently come out of his chamber when they were arguing and heard much of the exchange. More irritating still, he looked rather amused. “Legolas seems well restored to health, my dear father.”

Thranduil sighed and shook off his vexation. Such a silly thing was not worth being in a ruffle for the rest of the day. Why Legolas had even attempted it was beyond him. But he did remark, “That boy is impossible!”

“Really, Father, I caused you much more grief when I came of age. Why does Legolas surprise you?”

Smiling in spite of himself, the elven king replied blithely, “You were a trying child all your life, so your misbehavior throughout your coming of age came as no surprise. Legolas has not always been thus.”

Berensul grinned at him. “Such are the woes of fatherhood, as I’ve no doubt I am about to experience first-hand.”

“Indeed, Sili is yours to rear. I look forward to seeing you wrestling with all the decisions that must be made over her upbringing, for the prerogative is yours,” Thranduil said, teasing slightly.

But Berensul looked downright smug at those words. “Just so,” he said. “That established, if you will excuse me, I need to see a man about a horse. Or a pony, that is.”

“What?!”

***

A little while later…

With a resounding “thunk,” the last of Legolas’s arrows embedded itself in the dead center of the target. Beside him, Candrochon cursed and shook his head. “Only weeks since you were on your deathbed and already you are outshooting us all.”

Eregdos, the archer captain who had replaced Langcyll as leader of the warriors of Mirkwood, laughed from the sidelines. “I am glad to see him returned, for he keeps the rest of you on your toes.” Though a strict novice master Eregdos was wise and well-liked by all the warriors. At the moment, he was assembling patrol parties. “I will need a company of twelve to scout south for three weeks--no, Legolas, do not bother volunteering for that one.”

As it happened, Legolas had not intended to, but the smirk from Candrochon and his other friends irked him nonetheless. Since his return to the ranks of the warriors, he had chafed at the restrictions that remained upon his movement, and his companions greatly enjoyed rubbing his nose in it at every opportunity. Eregdos assembled the scouting party, and continued, “Lady Limloeth’s party leaves tomorrow at dawn. Four of our warriors shall escort them to the border. I shall be one of them.”

“For that I shall volunteer,” Legolas spoke up resolutely.

Eregdos smiled (he had expected the prince would.) Merilin and Candrochon also joined. “Someone has to look after you,” said Candrochon.

“Ignore him, Legolas, he is merely jealous that you are beating him again.”

“Of course,” laughed Legolas.

“A fine day when my own wife mocks me!”

“Hah!”

***

The next morning…

Limloeth swept her gray Lórien cloak back as she came into the palace foyer. Her brother Berensul was waiting for her. “How did Sili like her present?”

Berensul grinned. “She is beside herself. Gwilwileth is going to begin instructing her today, once Baran gets used to his new home.”

“Did you have any trouble in Lake Town?”

“Nay, though the men were a little surprised to see me after all this time. But they were more than happy to give me a good pony for my gold.”

The princess sniggered, “Does Father know you paid them in gold?”

“Nay, and I’ve no intention of telling him.” They both laughed. Hearing footsteps, the two turned to see their younger brother coming, dressed for winter riding in his brown cloak. “Good morrow, Legolas. Eregdos finally let you off the leash, I see.”

Pulling his mouth to one side, Legolas replied, “To some extent, though he himself leads the escort.” Berensul chuckled and Legolas shrugged amiably. “I shall see you outside; the escort is readying their horses.”

“So you finally picked a replacement mount?” asked Limloeth.

His bright eyes darkening, Legolas replied, “There was no replacing Lanthir.”

Watching Legolas go, his sister murmured, “He still mourns.”

“Lanthir was a noble steed, a gift from Lady Galadriel at the start of the Great Gathering. Legolas has a right to miss him. It explains why he was so forceful on the subject of Sili’s pony.”

“And Father just as stubborn. Why do you suppose Legolas manages to vex him so? As you said, you were a far more difficult youth.”

Berensul fixed her with a knowing gaze. “You need not ask questions to which you already know the answer, Sister. We both know why Father reacts to Legolas as he does.”

It was an inevitable truth, but one that Legolas’s elder siblings could acknowledge without bitterness. Smiling at each other, they came out onto the outer palace steps where the rest of the elven king’s household waited.

***

King Thranduil had little doubt that Legolas had somehow persuaded Berensul to disobey his edict against dealing with men. And he was none too happy about it, though he had at last acquiesced when it was clear that Berensul’s mind was made up. Such a matter was hardly worth calling the palace guards, though the thought had seriously crossed Thranduil’s mind. Looking back, he half-wished he had done it rather than permit his sons to undermine his authority, but it was done now. And Silivren was quite thrilled to have a pony, but that did not alter the facts.

That line of thought abruptly stopped when he spotted Legolas leading his horse over to Limloeth’s escort. After adjusting the gray mare’s pack, he turned and came nimbly up the steps to where the rest of the family was assembling to bid Limloeth farewell. Seeing Thranduil watching him, Legolas tensed ever so slightly. The elven king sighed inwardly. “I did not know you were joining the escort, Legolas,” he said in a forcibly calm tone.

Meeting his father’s eyes evenly, Legolas replied, “Forgive me. We only assembled last night.”

“How long will you be gone, my son?”

Legolas relaxed, and his voice softened, “Two days at the most.”

Thranduil nodded. “That is well.” Just then Berensul and Limloeth came out of the palace, followed by Eirien and Silivren. Touching his son’s shoulder, he said quietly, “Take care.”

“I shall, Father.” Then they turned so the rest of the family could bid farewell to Limloeth. When all had taken their leave, Legolas took his sister’s hand and escorted her down to the waiting entourage. Thranduil watched with a deep ache inside as his eldest daughter and youngest son mounted their horses and rode from the palace courtyard, waving back to their family. Limloeth, now wed and a Lady of Lothlórien. Legolas, a proven warrior of Mirkwood.

*It has come at last, however long I sought to deny it. All my children have grown.* But then, just as a sense of dreadful loneliness threatened to overwhelm him, the childish pleading of his granddaughter reached his ears. “May I go and see my pony now, Mother? Please?”

A smile coming at once to his face, Thranduil turned to his daughter-in-law. “I shall take her to the stables, Eirien, by your leave.” At her warm nod, he held out his hand to Sili. “Come, little one. There is much now for you to see.*

***

Fourteen years later, in the Lonely Mountain…

“I still have my worries about this undertaking.” Glóin and Dáin eyed the assembled company of dwarves, both feeling doubts.

“As do I, my friend, but we both know Balin would have gone whether I gave leave or no, and I would not see our people torn asunder by such a conflict,” said Dáin.

Glóin sighed, “True, but I prefer that to mourning our people if Moria defeats them.”

A great number of Dáin’s folk had elected to go with Balin, and at the foot of Lonely Mountain, they were preparing to depart, bearing the great stores of weapons and supplies they had been preparing for nearly twenty years. Balin and Óin stood at the front, Ori at the back, shouting orders to the company.

Dáin watched the activity for a moment before answering Glóin, “It may not be so bad. Balin is a fine dwarf, and fate willing, a worthy lord of Moria. We have worked hard these past years to give them all that they will need. They may well prevail and take back our ancient realm. It would be a great triumph for the dwarves.”

“I hope you are right.”

Balin, Óin, and Ori came up then to where Dáin and Glóin were standing. “All is ready, my lord. We beg leave to depart.”

Dáin nodded gravely and gripped each of their arms in turn. “Safe journey, my friends. We shall be awaiting word.”

“Farewell, Dáin, Glóin.” The three leaders returned to the company of dwarves, who cheered a tribute to their leaders and also to the King Under the Mountain, who they were leaving behind.

Glóin and Dáin watched them until the party vanished from view. “Well, my friend,” Dáin said briskly. “I am glad you remained here.”

“I would not choose to cast my son’s and my lot with any other,” Glóin replied.

Dáin laughed, clapping Glóin on the back as they went back into the halls. “I appreciate your faith. Here, come.” He walked into a small storeroom as they went deeper into the mountain. It was one of many treasure rooms that housed the wealth of the Lonely Mountain. Rummaging around in one of the boxes, Dáin beckoned Glóin over. “A token of that appreciation for your loyalty, son of Gróin.”

The King Under the Mountain handed Glóin a large, lusterous black pearl. “Brought back by Naldin from the mountains near Moria. Keep it, my friend.”

Glóin took the gift and bowed, then held it up admiringly. “May treasures such as this be all that Balin’s folk find in the old mines.”

“May that come to pass,” agreed Dáin fervently.

“Naldin found it in the mountains, you say? Odd; looks more like a sea pearl.”

“Hmph. Strange. Wonder where exactly it was.”

“Shame we can’t ask him. But Naldin went with his father back to Moria,” Glóin told him.

“Did he? Don’t recall exactly--any others of Naldin’s party go back with Balin?”

“Two of them. Sothi, son of Dwalin, and Tili’s eldest, Sháin.”

“But Tili and Dwalin didn’t go?”

“Nay, and neither were especially pleased that their sons did,” Glóin chuckled. “I am glad Gimli chose not to.”

“He was tempted?” asked Dáin.

“Thought we’d have a fight on our hands, but in the end he decided to stay,” Glóin replied.

Dáin laughed. “Tili and Dwalin did have a fight on their hands, but couldn’t change Sháin and Sothi’s minds. Hmph. Ah, well. Who can explain fathers and sons?”

*****  



	27. Old Friends, Older Enemies (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

Twenty-eight years later (or forty-two years after Legolas returned to Mirkwood)…

 

In the Dead Marshes…

 

It was all that Aragorn could do not to drag his feet as he slogged through the stinking quagmire, bound for home. His entire body ached with exhaustion from the arduous journey he had just undertaken, and now he returned, weighed down still more by the burden of failure.

Though he had searched high and low in the Ash Mountains, walking in sight of the Black Gate and treading the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale, braving the fires and choking smoke of Mordor, he had not found Gollum.

Gandalf had some years ago told him of a ring he had discovered, in the keeping of Bilbo Baggins, no less. It had been passed to Bilbo’s nephew Frodo, and for the moment at least seemed safe enough. But the wizard was worried that the Ring, which seemed at first to possess no power more extraordinary than turning people invisible, might actually be a far more significant trinket. Aragorn knew how Bilbo had come by it, but Bilbo had apparently not known how the Ring first came into Gollum’s possession. Thus, they had sought him out, to find the origins of Bilbo’s Ring, through the vales of Anduin, Mirkwood, and Rhovanion to the confines of Mordor.

Mordor was a fearsome place, and perils Aragorn had faced until at last he had despaired and turned away from its darkness. The journey had been a taxing one, and even as the light of the west had brought him hope, Aragorn fought such weariness that he wondered if he would not collapse on the spot. His food and water had run low, forcing him to ration himself carefully, but the dry, bitter tang in the air of Mordor, and now the heavy stench of the Marshes dried his throat until he was tormented by desperate thirst.

*It is not very much farther,* he told himself, plodding on as brackish mud sucked on his boots. *Soon I shall pass Emyn Muil, and there I shall find rest and fresh water.*

He came to another reasonably dry place, where the earth rose hard and dead above the clutch of the greasy, sullen waters. Weariness sang in his blood and bones, and so he chose that place to rest, allowing himself a sip of water and a morsel of elvish waybread, which he always carried with him. Although the waybread eased his hunger and restored some of his strength, it took all his willpower not to drain his waterskin dry. There was so little left; he would barely make it out of the marshes as it was with what he had. He dared not finish it. The festering stink of the marshland seemed to suck the moisture from his mouth with every breath. He closed his eyes; to open them was only to invite further temptation to drink from the acrid mere, and he dared not. That would invite sickness to befall him, and alone in this forsaken place, he would find no aid.

The night came and a slight breeze picked up, bringing more stench with it but at least lessening the muggy heat. It was only early spring, but heat came early to the southern lands of Middle Earth, and the Dead Marshes in particular seemed to hold it in. Aragorn rolled onto his back, letting the light wind dry the sweat on his face. Unfortunately, the moving air was making the water in the meres lap softly, and the sounds were a new torture to the parched Ranger. *Water, water.*

At last he could endure no more and pulled himself to his feet. *By the Valar, there must be a pool somewhere in these fens where water rises up safe to drink!* He staggered through the rotten, scummy mud, searching for any reasonably clean water. But the stagnant meres were so filled with slime and rot that he knew it would be the height of folly to drink of them. *Water…*

Feeling weak with despair and fatigue, he stumbled on, unwilling to tarry in this place any longer without finding water. He folded his arms across his chest to keep them from straying to his water skin, and those last precious mouthfuls it contained, though they called seductively to him. The stink of the place seemed permanently imprinted in his nose and mouth, though he gagged and wiped his face on his sleeve. Slime and sweat dripped from him.

All at once, the swamp seemed at last to recede, and he found himself upon a path easier to tread, where the mud did not attempt to suck him down. Feeling renewed now with the ability to put one foot before the other without great strain, Aragorn turned his attention again to the pools and mires, hoping to see some sign of spring or stream. Finally, as night became day once again, his diligence was rewarded. The wind had died, and the sun’s beams reflected off the standing water through the slough, but in one place, the pool continued to ripple. The Ranger stopped in his tracks, blinking wearily, uncertain of what he saw. Could it be?

It was. Fresh water bubbled up in a tiny spring that opened into a muddy pool, pouring out into the marshes where it would sit still and stagnant forever. Aragorn all but launched himself off the dry path, landing full-length in the mud before the small flow. With trembling hands, he dipped up the water and sipped experimentally. Not terribly sweet, but clean enough. Gasping with weary relief, the heir of Isildur splashed his face clean of sweat and dirt, then dropped over the spring and drank until he was completely sated.

His desperate thirst attended to, he sat up again and set about filling his water skin. He would rest here today, drink his fill again, then set off again tomorrow. Even as he sat back again with his skin full, his gaze fell upon the mud on the opposite side of the pool, indentations not caused by any flow of water.

Aragorn’s heart lurched in anticipation as he scrambled to the imprints, and sure enough, he had at last by fortune come upon what he sought: the marks of soft feet. After having lost Gollum so thoroughly, the trail was fresh again, and it led, to the Ranger’s surprise, not to Mordor but away. He wasted no time, but snatched up his full water skin and sought out the next set of prints. And the next, and the next. Along the skirts of the Dead Marshes he followed it, and as the dark evening fell yet again, Aragorn slowed. There by a stagnant mere, a dark figure lurked, barely visible in the faint light. The creature was peering into the water, muttering “Fisshhhh” to himself, and so Aragorn stealthily moved up behind him.

“Nice fissh, nice fissh. Many days without fisssh, Gollum, Gollum, poor Sméagol might starve. But now can find fissh, yes, nice fissh. Get stronger, my Precious. Go find Precious, get Precious back from nasty thief! But first fissh--”

Through those words, Aragorn had crept closer and closer. The creature he sought was shriveled and bony and covered in slime, trembling slightly. Gollum must be very hungry, for he peered on into the mere, muttering to himself, and not once did he sense that anything was amiss. Then he was but an arm’s length away, and Aragorn leapt out and seized him.

“Aaaagh! Evil! Nasty man! Loose us! Let go! Gollum, Gollum! Wicked man! Nasty mens, all wicked! Mustn’t hurt Sméagol! No! Loose us!”

Aragorn wrestled with his quarry, for Gollum was stronger than he looked, or at least more wily. The heir of Isildur found himself covered in slime and lurching off balance in every direction as Gollum bucked and kicked to get free. Managing to hook one arm around the creature’s torso, he wrenched a length of rope from his belt and attempted to loop it around Gollum‘s wrists. Gollum in turn seized the hand holding the rope and jerked it up past Aragorn’s other arm, sinking his white fangs into the Ranger’s flesh. Cursing furiously, Aragorn pulled free and smote Gollum a hard blow to one ear, dazing him long enough to get the rope instead around his neck.

“Gollum, Gollum! Evil, nasty man! Hurts us! Hits and chokes us! Come to take Sméagol back, yes, back--”

“Back where?” Aragorn demanded, examing his bleeding arm after fashioning the rope into a more suitable halter that Gollum would not escape from.

“Gollum, Gollum! Poor Sméagol, hurts Sméagol! Did nothing--”

Extremely cross with weariness and pain from the bite, Aragorn was not in any mood to be trifled with. He seized Gollum again and shook him vigorously. “Where have you been, Gollum? Why were you in Mordor?”

“Wicked man, nasty man! Gollum, Gollum!”

With another curse, Aragorn shoved the filthy, stinking creature away, fighting off nausea at the smell and feel of slime on his hands and clothes. Glaring at Gollum, he satisfied himself that the creature would not escape, and sat down, pondering what to do with him now. *Elbereth only knows where Gandalf is at this moment. I would not see this creature in the Shire, for certain.* He frowned to himself, thinking all the places he could take Gollum in the shortest length of time. *I shall be glad to wash my hands of him--literally, as the case may be. Perhaps…but would they receive him? I wonder…I am not known as a friend to the elves of Mirkwood, yet they have long memories. Perhaps my friendship to Legolas will still hold weight, even if it has been more than forty years since he left Rivendell.*

It would be a short trip at least, if he made for Mirkwood. At that point, Gollum began moaning and whining again, and Aragorn glared at him. “I shall gag you if you do not desist this noise.”

“Nasty mens, cruel mens, hurt poor Sméagol…”

Aragorn had only just returned from a nearly-fruitless journey through Mordor, slogged his way through the Dead Marshes, and now found himself covered with slime and nursing a rather nasty bite on his right arm. He was in no mood to be toyed with. Before Gollum even knew what was happening, the Ranger sprang to his feet, pulling a length of cloth from his pack, and stuffed part of it into his mouth, tying it behind his head. “I warned you,” he said coldly when Gollum grunted and whimpered at him. “Now be still or I shall bind you tighter.” With one final grumble, the creature crouched down and glared balefully back at him.

Aragorn sighed. It was going to be a very long walk to Mirkwood. He considered attempting to get some sleep with Gollum’s lead tied to a shrub nearby, but decided against it. He did not trust Gollum any further than Gollum could throw him. That in mind, with another sigh, he rose and took up the rope, gesturing imperiously for Gollum to walk ahead of him. The creature resisted at first, but a few snaps of the rope got him moving.

***

For all the misery that he had endured in Mordor, Aragorn considered the road back even worse. He watched Gollum day and night, getting precious little sleep as they moved up along the Anduin towards northern Mirkwood. He drove Gollum before him, not trusting the creature behind, and only after many days lacking drink and food did Gollum at last walk tamely ahead.

He had one reprieve as he passed between southern Mirkwood and Lothlórien. There along the banks of the Anduin he encountered a small scouting party of Lórien elves, watering their horses. Remembering Aragorn from his previous visit, two of them crossed the river to offer him additional food, and to discover what the strange creature was that Aragorn led with him.

“You are far from your traditional lands, Man of the West,” said the elf in the lead, bowing to Aragorn.

“As you see, Master Elf, I have an unusual errand,” the Ranger replied blandly, gesturing to his prisoner.

“Whither do you take him?” asked the other elf.

“I hope that the Elves of Mirkwood will agree to keep him safe,” said Aragorn. “For he is wanted by Mithrandir in a matter of some importance.”

The elves digested this, then apparently were placated by the mention of the wizard’s name. The first elf bowed. “I am Orthelian, a captain under Haldir of the warriors of Lórien. My companion is Maethor, also a captain of our guard. We have seen you and heard much of you, Lord Aragorn, though we have never been introduced.”

Aragorn bowed in return, “You do me an honor, Captains of Lórien.” His vision blurred slightly. He was very tired.

Maethor noticed it. “Do you mean to depart at once for Mirkwood?”

“I should like to see my prisoner there as soon as possible.”

“And have you none to keep watch upon him? When do you sleep?”

“When I can.”

Orthelian and Maethor exchanged a glance. “Then join us at camp here on the riverbank tonight,” offered Orthelian. “We shall keep watch upon your prisoner while you take some rest. For a weary watcher may prove little use to that which he is charged with watching.”

Smiling wryly, Aragorn conceded to their reasoning. The last three elves of the party swam themselves and the horses across the river with little difficulty, and they made camp upon the eastern bank. Aragorn accepted gratefully their food and wine, but soon felt weariness overcome him, and laid down to rest. Orthelian himself took a watch, and posted another elf specifically to guard Gollum. Earlier, apparently feeling more charitable toward the creature than Aragorn, Maethor had attempted to remove the gag in order to offer Gollum something to eat. Only his elven reflexes had prevented him from having a hand bitten. But the scruples of the party would not let Gollum go hungry while they ate, so they left bread and fruit near him before snatching the gag away. After considerable grumbling, he ate it and drank the water they left him, then the gag went back on.

When Aragorn awoke, the sun was well in the sky. Startled, he looked about but saw the elves still keeping watch over both him and Gollum. Orthelian grinned at him. “Why did you not awaken me sooner, Captain Orthelian? I did not mean to delay you.”

“We thought you needed your rest, being mortal and all,” said the elven captain with a twinkle in his gray eyes. After you have broken your fast, we will be on our way.”

Slightly chagrinned, Aragorn accepted their generosity, and thanked them. He parted with them saying, “If you should happen to see Mithrandir, you might tell him that I have found Gollum. He will wish to know.”

“We shall, Lord Aragorn. Farewell! And,” Orthelian looked back over his shoulder, “please give my regards to Legolas.”

Startled, Aragorn glanced back, but the elves were already swimming back across the river. *Elves. I was reared by them, raised among them, speak their language as naturally as my own, and still they puzzle me.*

***

Seven days later…

Gollum hissed and grumbled around his gag as Aragorn drove him along the edge of the forest. They were still at least three days out of the elven king’s halls, but the Ranger was beginning to fear he would collapse and lose his prisoner. He had had next to no sleep since parting ways with Orthelian and Maethor, and despite the endurance of his Numenorean blood, the strain was taking a heavy toll. Driving Gollum ahead of himself was the only way to ensure that the creature did not notice his growing weakness and attempt to take advantage of it.

*If I do not rest soon, I will be unable to prevent him from escaping.* The lembas of the elves granted him the strength to walk on, but even that no longer served as any substitute for sleep. *So tired…* Lack of food and drink had tamed Gollum, but Aragorn did not trust him for ten seconds if the creature should realize his captor’s growing vulnerability. Aragorn’s hands trembled as he held the lead rope, and he was stumbling more and more frequently as he walked.

*I must sleep,* the Ranger fell to his knees. That caught Gollum’s attention, and the creature looked back curiously. Seeing Aragorn’s weariness, his eyes widened slightly, and he immediately attempted to jerk the lead rope free of his captor’s hands.

But Aragorn still had some strength left in him, and he wrenched it back. Gollum hissed in protest, but became submissive again. Aragorn staggered to his feet and looked around. The dark edge of northwestern Mirkwood was not a hundred yards away, but his peril would only increase if he attempted to brave its depths in this state. He had thought at first to skirt the forest all the way around until he reached the wood elves’ territory. But now his list of plausible choices was shortening. He would not last much longer before his body forced him into unconsciousness, whether he was willing or no. And Gollum would escape then.

Resolutely, he drove Gollum straight toward the forbidding wood until they were just beneath its edge. Then he leaned against one of the dark trunks, closing his eyes against the haze that clouded his vision. *So tired…* Forcing his eyes open, he looked at his prisoner. He had to find some way of securing Gollum so that the creature would not escape while he slept. With that in mind, he began winding the rope around the tree until Gollum was forced up against it, his trussed hands pressed into the trunk. Using another coil he bound Gollum fast until the creature could barely move at all, let alone wriggle or chew himself free of the ropes.

“I am not going anywhere and neither are you,” he said curtly. Almost as soon as he had finished securing his prisoner, a wave of dizzy exhaustion brought him to his knees again. “Just as well,” he muttered to himself. “I fear I could not go any further if I wished.” With that, he cast himself onto the ground and fell instantly into an unnaturally heavy sleep.

***

The next day, on the edge of Mirkwood…

“Are you sure that shoulder is well, Caranaur?” Legolas asked his fellow warrior with a worried frown.

“It is fine, Legolas. There does not seem to be any infection,” Caranaur replied, eyeing his bandaged wound.

Legolas’s small hunting party was three days out of the elven king’s halls, nearly to the edge of the wood. They had been hunting spiders, but stumbled across a small company of orcs the day before. Caranaur had suffered the only injury, a shallow knife wound, but insisted it was not worth returning home.

“You simply do not duck fast enough,” said Thalatirn. Caranaur glared at him.

Grinning, Legolas turned his attention ahead to where the break in the trees revealed the plains to the west. “Let us find the sun, and then we shall turn for home.”

The three warriors walked out from beneath the cover of the trees, enjoying the warmth of the spring sun upon their faces. All at once, scuffling noises nearby caused them all to start and look about. “What was that?” muttered Thalatirn.

“Sounds like an animal,” murmured Caranaur.

Legolas said nothing, but quietly drew an arrow and cautiously followed the sounds, his comrades close behind him. The scratches and scuffs seemed not like an animal simply making its way through the grass or chasing prey, but rather like something trapped and trying to break free. So intent was he on seeking the source of the noises that he nearly did not see the large form upon the ground before him. Caranaur grabbed his arm then, pointing excitedly. The three elves froze.

It was a man, dressed in the worn, dark raiment of a Ranger, lying sprawled upon the grass just beneath the shade of the trees at the edge of the wood, dead to the world. Rangers were not ones to sleep unguarded in the wood, and under normal circumstances, this man would have been roused by the noises of the animal nearby. Thus he had to be either injured or ill. Legolas startled his friends by taking a few steps closer, and Thalatirn even grabbed his arm in protest, far less trusting of a strange mortal even if he were hurt. But Legolas motioned them back and walked to where he could see the man’s face, turned slightly away from him.

The bow slackened at once, and he dropped his arrow. “Ara--Strider!” he managed to catch himself as he remembered Caranaur and Thalatirn.

His comrades called out behind him, “Legolas, what--” but Legolas was already kneeling at his old friend’s side, checking the man’s pulse. The other two elves stared at each other in confusion, for none in Mirkwood knew of Legolas’s previous encounters with mortals, and over the past forty years, he had spent most of his time within the realm’s borders. “Legolas?”

“Strider?” Sighing with relief at finding a heartbeat, Legolas looked Aragorn over for other injuries. He could find none, but by the Valar, how fast mortals aged, even those of Númenórean blood. His friend’s dark hair was beginning to show hints of gray, and his face had acquired many lines and shadows. His eyes in particular were closed tight with exhaustion. Deeply worried, Legolas shook him gently, “Arise, my friend. What ails you?”

At last, the Ranger groaned and tossed his head. Legolas sat back a bit as Aragorn started, tensing at once as the elf’s voice pulled him from unconsciousness. Blinking weakly, Aragorn stared at the new arrivals. While the Ranger’s aged appearance came as a shock to Legolas, in more than forty years the Sindarin prince’s face had not changed at all. “Legolas?”

“The guard of the Rangers seems to have lessened, or why have I found you exposed deep in slumber upon these plains?” asked the elf with a small smile.

“Legolas?” pressed Caranaur from behind them, sounding faintly dismayed. Legolas ignored him.

Aragorn pulled his mouth to one side. “As it happens, I was on my way to see you.”

“Indeed--”

“Legolas!” exclaimed both his companions. Exasperated at the explanations that would now be demanded, Legolas turned to face them. Instead, both pointed to a tree just beyond where the man sat, and the creature tied to it.

The elf stared, then wrinkled his nose. “Who…or what…is that?”

Wryly, his old friend answered, “That is why I have come. I had a request to make of your father, King Thranduil, and his folk.”

Legolas grimaced harder, guessing Aragorn’s purpose. “You wish us to keep this…thing?”

Aragorn nodded. “Not the most pleasant favor, I know, but he has information that must not fall into the wrong hands. I am certain your people could keep him safe.”

“What is he?”

“He is called Gollum, though I am told his name was once Sméagol. I shall tell you more if you will permit me within your borders.”

Legolas laughed. “Consider yourself permitted, but first I would know what ails you. I could find no injuries, but you did not wake for several moments.”

With a shrug, Aragorn replied, “There has been precious little time for sleep guarding him. I searched for him all the way to Mordor and back.”

“Ai,” Legolas muttered appreciatively. He rose then, and Aragorn attempted to stand as well, only to find himself so unsteady on his feet that Legolas had to catch him. “Ooph! How long had you been asleep before we came?”

Aragorn sheepishly accepted the elf’s aid sitting down again, then looked at the sky. “A few hours.”

Legolas nodded. “Not enough to make up for the weeks you have gone with less. We shall go to my father’s halls when you have rested longer, but I will send word ahead…along with your friend there,” he added, causing Aragorn to pull a face. “Caranaur, Thalatirn, kindly guide our strange guest back to the elven king’s halls and ask that he be placed under guard. Say that I shall be returning in a day or two with Strider.” At his companions’ confused expressions, he elaborated, “We met on an occasion while I was abroad. He is my friend.”

The other two elves looked doubtfully at each other. Wood elves were not inclined to trust strangers easily, and certainly not mortals. But it was clear to them that Legolas considered this man a friend, and he was commanding the small hunt. So, with intense distaste for their newly-acquired companion, they untied Gollum’s lead from the tree and led the grumbling, hissing creature into the woods.

Watching them go, Legolas grinned. “Not the most pleasant duty I have ever given them.”

“Commanding your own now, are you?” asked Aragorn.

Legolas shrugged. “Yea, small hunts only, but I am content. There is enough darkness in Mirkwood to keep any warrior busy.”

“You’ve not changed at all.”

Pulling out some rations and sharing them with Aragorn, Legolas remarked bluntly, “You have changed much. The weight of the world seems to have grown greater since we last met. Is life so ill?”

“Nay, not ill, merely worrisome.” Aragorn glanced around, making sure that Thalatirn and Caranaur had walked out of earshot. “It is believed that Gollum was a previous possessor of the One Ring.”

Legolas choked on a mouthful of water and nearly dropped the skin. Aragorn grimaced in agreement. Feeling a cold knot of dread form in his throat and slowly travel through his chest to his stomach, the elf asked softly, “What proof have you of this?”

“Proof, I have none, but Gandalf believes it.”

Legolas swallowed hard. “That is proof enough for me.” He greatly desired to strike the ground, break something, anything to relieve the sense of awful tension that tightened every muscle in his body at the thought of the One Ring. Finding his voice again, he spoke in a near-whisper, “Previous possessor, you say? Where does Mithrandir think it is now?”

“Forgive me if I do not say,” Aragorn replied, nodding apologetically. “But I think the fewer who know the better. I will say only that I know, and Gandalf and I are among many doing all we can to keep it safe.”

“It is not safe so long as it exists,” Legolas murmured, feeling the urge to shudder in spite of the warm sun.

“I know, my friend. Believe me, the thought has occupied my mind every moment since Gandalf came to me with this news. There are other things yet to be done, and I have sent word to Gandalf that I am bringing Gollum here. Hopefully he shall come bearing better counsel than I.” The Ranger rubbed his eyes, trying to bring them back into focus.

Legolas noticed. “Forgive me, my friend, I fear I have kept you awake with my questions. Rest now, and recover your strength.” He grinned at the man’s slightly affronted expression. “Come, you are greatly weary if you slept through Gollum’s infernal noises and our arrival. Get some sleep, and I shall stand watch.” With a resigned grin, Aragorn did so.

***

Two days later…

Candrochon, son of Anunborn, returned from a short hunting excursion to meet his wife, Merilin, and several other elven warrioresses enjoying a day without duties. His wife greeted him with a delighted embrace. “You are late again.”

“Forgive me. Orcs and spiders do not share your respect for punctuality.”

“Do not believe him, Mer, he was merely swilling wine and bragging with Fimsigil and Fandoll!” teased Galithil. The other she-elves laughed and added taunts of their own.

Candrochon looked from his wife to pull a face at the warrioresses. “Unlike you ladies, I have more important tasks to occupy my time than gossiping about gowns and marriages when I am off-duty.” Then he ducked to escape a hail of thrown acorns.

“How do you put up with him, Merilin?” Tuilinn demanded.

“He has his moments.”

“Not many of them, I would wager!”

“Get thee a husband, Salma, then you may talk!”

“Shall we leave them alone, friends?” suggested Edlothia. The other she-elves giggled, but headed for the rope ladder down from the pavilion in the tree. “Ah, look! Someone comes!”

Candrochon and Merilin joined the others at the railing, peering down at the two walkers approaching through the trees. “I cannot see who just yet. But they walk openly.”

Tuilinn narrowed her eyes, “Which of the scouting parties are due back?”

“Only Narbeleth’s, but hers is a party of twelve,” said Merilin.

“There!” Gwilwileth pointed as the approaching pair came further out of the trees. “It is Legolas.”

“But who comes with him?”

Legolas and his as-yet-unidentified companion came further out of the trees until they were in plain view of the elves on the flet. Candrochon heard intakes of breath from all the she-elves at the sight of the stranger. “It…it…it is a man!” breathed Galithil.

A man it was, even taller than Legolas and much bigger, wearing the travel-worn raiment of a western Ranger. So unlike an elf, for his face looked as worn as his clothing, lined and shadowed with care and struggle. Yet there was a chiseled strength to his features, and a depth and perception within his light gray eyes that Candrochon had never seen in a mortal before. It was quite startling.

But evidently, his female comrades were startled for another reason entirely. Beside him, his wife sucked in a deep breath. “That is not a man,” she whispered. “That’s art!”

“Merilin!” Candrochon blurted, his shock breaking his inspection of the approaching mortal.

But every warrioress began to giggle in response and voice her agreement. “Ai, it has always been assumed that men were ill-favored compared to elves,” remarked Tuilinn. “But this one…”

Galithil sniggered, “Looks very strong, does he not?”

“Yea, he has seen much of Middle Earth, I imagine,” murmured Edlothia.

“And most of it on foot, judging by his legs.”

“Mmm, his legs…”

“Merilin!”

Turning her attention to Candrochon, Gwilwileth grinned, “I fear your husband is turning a peculiar shade of green, Merilin.”

Giggling still harder, Galithil remarked, “Poor thing, he cannot stand competition from mortals. And such a mortal,” she added with a sigh, looking back down at the two walkers. Disgusted and quite outnumbered, Candrochon climbed down to meet the newcomers.

***

Walking beside Legolas, Aragorn knew that his arrival with Gollum and news of the One Ring had thrown his friend into a pit of anxiety and melancholy. It sorrowed the Ranger to be the cause of dampening the young archer’s merry nature, and he sought to bring Legolas out of it. “Come, my elven friend, you have grilled me for news of my travels, without telling me aught of your doings these late years.”

With a little shake of his head as though coming out of a trance, Legolas replied, “Little compared to you. Orcs and spiders multiply so that much of our time is commanded by hunts. Many of the villages south of my father’s halls have been emptied of our people, and those that remain in the northern forest have been forced to become stockades.” There was sorrow in his bright eyes, and a trace of anger. “The Enemy’s hold here goes stronger with each passing year. When at last his forces are rallied I know not how we will be able to stop them.”

The admission startled Aragorn, who turned and looked thoughtfully at the elven warrior. Realization came to him with both sorrow and anger of his own. Legolas was frightened. *And he is but one of many among the free peoples of Middle Earth. Eldar, dwarves, men. They are all frightened.*

Here in the northern forest the sun still penetrated the green canopy, but looking south, Aragorn could see a murky darkness in the trees that was almost palpable in the distance. To elven senses, it must seem very close indeed. “Neither of our peoples will fall,” he told Legolas. “No shadow shall hold sway over Middle Earth so long as you or I or Gandalf, or any of our friends draw breath.” He smiled reassuringly, “And that is a heavy obstacle even for Sauron.” Legolas cracked a grin at last, and Aragorn changed the subject. “Tell me of your family. I met your sister’s husband on the banks of the Anduin, and he bade me give you his regards.”

“Orthelian?” Legolas asked in surprised pleasure. He smiled. “I’ve seen naught of him for nearly twenty years. He led the last company of warriors from Lórien across the plains, but since then few of their parties have journeyed beyond their borders. We hear the Galadhrim are deserting the Golden Wood in great numbers for the Havens. Soon there will be none left.” His eyes darkened again, but this time he shook himself out of it. “But Limloeth and Orthelian remain there still, in service to the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn.”

Aragorn snickered; he always did when he thought of Celeborn and Legolas at the same time. Legolas mock-glared at him, and continued. “Life within my father’s halls remains very much as it ever was. I attend court often when I am not abroad with the hunting parties,” and his unspoken thought was clearly *far more than I should like.*

Aragorn quashed a grin and asked, “Is it true that Thranduil will permit no dealings with mortals for any reason?”

He would not have dared to ask if he had thought Legolas would be offended, and the son of Thranduil was not. “Nay, though I am not surprised that the rumors paint it that way. Our trade with Dale and Laketown remains the same, or it would if both parties had not been forced to reduce travel for fear of the Enemy’s marauders. But still we have a modest trade with men. Dwarves as always will have naught to do with us, nor my father with them.”

“And your relations with the kingdoms of men?”

Legolas furrowed his brow slightly. “Beyond trade, very little. My father’s distaste for dealing with mortals does lead him to deny permission for any dealings in which his people are the supplicants.”

“I don’t follow you.”

His bright eyes betraying faint frustration, Legolas explained, “There are few things for which we have a pressing need that we cannot make or find ourselves. But occasionally, such needs come up. Even less often men are in a position to meet our needs in some way, but it is those instances when my father refuses to approach them. Our manner of trade and the items we trade for remain just as they have for centuries even though our needs have changed, because my father seems to think that suggesting a change in routine will inherently suggest a weakness.” He shook his head, but then added hastily, “It does not happen frequently, but once or twice, we have been forced to do without when a simple delegation to Laketown could have procured what we required.”

“Your father is proud even by elven standards.”

“That he is,” Legolas laughed wryly. “But I fear our needs will soon be of a nature that will make it impossible for him to continue thus. For our need for weapons increases daily, and our supply of metals runs short. That we cannot obtain for ourselves, and even the king knows we cannot do without. He knows that day is coming when we must seek aid from men. He is merely determined to delay it as much as possible.”

Aragorn laughed in his turn, startling two squirrels out of the underbrush before them. They paused as the two little animals raced scolding off into the trees, and Aragorn heard something else move in the trees nearby. He put a hand on his sword, but Legolas’s hand stopped them, telling him plainly what the noisemaker was. “A friend of yours, I take it?”

“If he would be good enough to show himself, I would introduce you,” said Legolas. Moments later, a dark-haired Silvan elf, tall even by elven standards, dropped from a tree before them. “Is the company of the ladies too much for you, Candrochon?”

The sounds of feminine laughter reached Aragorn’s ears from the trees ahead, and the look that the newly-arrived elf shot him was slightly vexed. The elven warrior turned back to Legolas and jerked his head at the nearly-invisible flet in a tall tree. “It’s like a henhouse up there.”

Legolas looked confused at first, then cocked his head, listening to elven voices too soft for Aragorn’s mortal ears to distinguish. The prince then turned from Candrochon to Aragorn and slowly grinned. Aragorn was baffled by the talk, and it must have showed upon his face, for Legolas said, “It seems some of the ladies of Mirkwood have been admiring you, Man of the West.”

“What?” before he could stop himself, Aragorn looked at the flet and this time beheld half a dozen she-elves peering back at him, with that particular female look in their eyes that said all too clearly where their admirations lay. Blood rushed to his face, and Legolas burst into a peal of laughter.

“Come down, my ladies, and meet our guest.”

As they descended, some in gowns, others in the garb of guards, Aragorn suspected that the six were warrioresses. As interested as they were in the stranger, they briefly turned their attention to Legolas. “Welcome home, my lord,” said each in her turn, some bowing to him, others embracing him. “We had wondered what delayed you.”

Legolas grinned, turning to Aragorn, “Ladies, I present Strider of the Dúnedain. Strider, you have the honor of meeting six of the warrior maidens of Mirkwood. I present Gwilwileth and Salma, daughters of Ulban,” the eldest and youngest of the group bowed to him. “Tuilinn, daughter of Fimsigil,” an elven maid not much older than Legolas possessing remarkable red hair bowed next. “Edlothia, daughter of Soron,” a warrioress older than Legolas nodded to him. “Galithil, daughter of Eregdos, and Lady Merilin, daughter of Lord Heledir,” he finished as an auburn-haired she-elf bowed to Aragorn.

“My wife,” added Candrochon from behind Legolas, in a distinctly sour tone. The other elves tittered. To Aragorn, he asked, “Was it you then who brought that…creature…here to Mirkwood?”

“I fear so,” Aragorn replied apologetically, glancing quickly at Legolas.

His friend interceded quickly, “But the matter must first be brought before my father. Let us back to the palace.”

The walk was a pleasant one, though Aragorn suffered more than his share of consternation by the rather intense scrutiny of the elves--particularly the she-elves--as they drew closer to the palace. It was clear that the Mirkwood elves, like the elves of Lórien but unlike the elves of Imladris, seldom left their realm and saw little of men within it. But at the same time, Mirkwood’s people were not quite the same as the elves of Lórien. While the Galadhrim had viewed the foreigner in their realm with suspicion even after Lord Elrond had vouched for him, here in Mirkwood the friendship of Legolas was evidently enough for Thranduil’s folk, and their stares betrayed curiosity and fascination more than distrust.

Fascination…especially from the elven women.

From what Legolas had told Aragorn, the wood elf population close to Thranduil’s palace-fort had grown denser over the years as the outlying villages were abandoned in favor of greater protection by the elven king’s guard. After Legolas and his friends had led Aragorn past a number of heavily-armed guard posts, the Ranger noticed far more elves walking among the trees, going about their day’s work without fear of attack. While it was not crowded by any means, a sizeable stretch of land surrounding Thranduil’s halls had become a veritable elven city.

And as a result, news of the passage of the mortal Ranger through it soon gained the attention of a good number of the populace. Whispers, discreet nods toward him, stares, and the occasional eruption of giggling told Aragorn how few of the Silvan elves had seen a man close-up. He was quite relieved when at last they passed through one of the western gates of the palace, only to find that the scrutiny did not cease there.

No sooner had they passed through the gate than soft exclamations and whispers bespoke the surprise of Thranduil’s folk at seeing a man in the company of the king’s son. Aragorn wondered, had Legolas told no one of what had transpired while he was abroad in Middle Earth? The Ranger’s thoughts were interrupted by a cry of “Legolas!” from the palace steps.

Many years before, when Aragorn had first beheld Arwen Undomiel on the paths of Imladris, he had been certain she was Luthien returned to Middle Earth. Now, as he spied the elven lady running down the steps, again he thought that a figure of elven legend had appeared in the flesh.

Only this time Nimrodel.

Had the elven maid before him been human, she looked to be perhaps seventeen, but Aragorn suspected she was close in real years to his own age, judging by her youthful demeanor. Her hair, a mass of sun-colored curls, tumbled down her back with a luster as bright as the emerald-green gown that she wore. Even without the crown of Mirkwood upon her head, Aragorn would have known by the familiar manner that she was related to Legolas.

The Sindarin princess hardly spared a glance at Aragorn in her eagerness to greet her kinsman, and seized Legolas in an embrace. Laughing, Legolas returned her kisses and endured her playful scolding. “What did you mean, sending Caranaur and Thalatirn back here and remaining on the forest’s edge alone? You frightened the wits out of everyone!”

“Forgive me,” Legolas pleaded, bowing in mock-contrition. “Another matter arose. Look to your manners, I must introduce you to a friend.” At last, the girl took notice of the stranger among her friends, and fixed curious bright blue eyes upon Aragorn. “This is Strider, a Ranger of the West. I present my niece, Silivren, daughter of my eldest brother Berensul.”

*Glittering.* Amid the stares of the elves as they walked, the company had spoken hardly at all during their return. Now, Aragorn could feel the eyes of a good many elves upon him as they waited to see the foreigner’s response. Smiling inwardly, he performed an extravagantly deep bow (not that courtesy was not fitting for the daughter of a crown prince) and declared, “I am most honored, my lady.”

Her eyes twinkling, the princess bowed in return and announced, “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Strider of the Dúnedain. In the name of my grandfather, Thranduil of Mirkwood, welcome, for any friend of Legolas is a friend of ours.” Turning back to Legolas with a smile, she said, “The king wishes to see you both on your return.”

*I’ll wager he does,* thought the Ranger, noticing the slightest tensing of Legolas’s shoulders. Aloud, the son of Thranduil said, “Let us go, then.”

*****


	28. Old Friends, Older Enemies (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

The previous three days had been rather anxious ones for the elven king of Mirkwood ever since the two warriors under Legolas’s command had returned from the hunt to inform him that Legolas had remained at the border helping an ailing mortal--AND that he was bringing said mortal back to the palace with him. Still more startling, not to mention distasteful, was the strange creature that the mortal had brought with him and Legolas had placed in his warriors’ charge. When word at last reached the court that Legolas and the stranger had arrived, Thranduil wasted no time in sending for them.

For he had plenty of questions.

Legolas strode through the doors of the throne room first, with the man just behind him. Thranduil took note of the mortal’s familiarity with elvish ways as he stopped just within the door while Legolas advanced and bowed to the king. “My lord, by your leave, I present Strider, a Ranger of the Dúnedain.”

Thranduil nodded his permission, and the man approached, stopping beside Legolas and dropping to one knee. “Hail, Thranduil, King of Mirkwood.”

Beckoning the man to rise, Thranduil looked from him to his son. There was much that bore explaining. How and when had Legolas made a friend such as this? His youngest son had always been rather naïve where men were concerned, which Thranduil gruffly tolerated, but this…the king had strong misgivings about the choices Legolas had just made. He remained silent for several moments, as his son and the Ranger calmly awaited his pleasure. He fixed the man with a long, searching stare, and noted also how the mortal did not so much as blink. Interesting. VERY interesting.

At length, the elven king spoke, “I understand you have come to beg a favor of the elves of Mirkwood, Strider of the Dúnedain?”

The man inclined his head. “I have, my lord. I seek a secure place to confine the creature Gollum, who is my prisoner, and have great faith in the ability of the elves to hold him.”

“And what interest have you in this creature?”

“He possesses information, my lord, information that is sought by the one the elves call Mithrandir. It was he who bade me seek Gollum out, which I did, traversing much of Middle Earth from the Misty Mountains to Mordor in my search. I found him in the Dead Marshes.”

*And the intrigue deepens,* thought Thranduil even as his heart clenched at the mention of Mordor. *What do you know of this man, Legolas?* He leveled a hard look at his son, who evenly met Thranduil’s eyes. *More than you say, that is certain. I may harbor a dislike of men, but I am not so ignorant of them as you think. I dislike information being kept from me.* To the Ranger, he said, “If you have passed through Mordor and returned alive with your objective, you are no ordinary man.”

“No, my lord. I am a Ranger.”

*A quick and clever answer. But I require more than you will give me.* Letting his gaze come to rest on his son’s face, he said, “If you will leave us, Master Strider, I should like to speak to the prince alone.” Without taking his eyes from Legolas, he sensed the man bowing and departing from the room.

Legolas, for his part, did an admirable job hiding his tension at the words, and spoke not until Thranduil did. The king waited until the doors had closed, then spoke without preamble. “I trust you have a good reason for this deceit, Legolas.”

His son’s eyes flashed, but he said nothing. Thranduil went on blithely, “I may not wish to encourage dealings with men, but I am ignorant neither of them nor of the other realms’ contact with them. And in the Elder days I saw much of them.” At Legolas’s continued silence, he finished, “So did you truly think that I would not recognize the heir of Isildur when I saw him?”

At least it was clear that that had been the only secret. Resignation replaced resistance in his son’s face, and Legolas replied softly, “Aragorn gave me his true name in a confidence which I was not prepared to breach, my lord. Even to you.”

“A confidence indeed? And how does this man merit such faith?” Thranduil asked in a condescending tone.

Legolas was forthright at least. “He is my friend.”

Thranduil chuckled, a little irritated but tolerant overall of his youngest son’s caprices. “Friends with a mortal. Of all my sons. Why am I not surprised? Though I had hoped you would grow a little less naïve--”

His son’s chin shot up. “He saved my life.” That startled Thranduil into pausing, and Legolas went on, “Several times, in fact. I asked not for his aid nor had anything to offer in return, but he risked himself more than once for my sake.”

Thranduil harbored a strong aversion to men, considering them covetous and barbaric, though he had never formed any lasting acquaintance with any one man. He preferred to hold the individuals to the standard he had seen set of the entire race in his various dealings with them throughout his life. So his son’s words were rather discomfiting, not fitting at all with what he persisted in believing of them. “So you brought him here to discharge you debt to him?”

Legolas shook his head. “Nay. I had an opportunity to return the favor of my life. I brought him here because he is my friend. And because Mithrandir wishes the creature kept safe. Aragorn said he sent word of where he was taking Gollum.”

*Mithrandir, at least that is something. But accepting the heir of Isildur as a friend, when will you ever learn, boy?* Still, what was done was done. And Legolas’s ill taste in friends aside, a request on behalf of Mithrandir to keep Gollum was not so unreasonable. After all, if the matter was attended to swiftly, the Ranger would be on his way all the sooner, away from Thranduil’s people…and his son.

Legolas was still awaiting an answer, so Thranduil said, “Very well, we shall grant his request. Gollum is being held in the dungeons; he will remain there.”

“The dungeons?” Legolas asked, his eyes showing dismay.

Thranduil replied absently, “Yes.” Then he caught his son’s expression and sighed, “Legolas, we have more refugees from the outlying villages arriving every day. There is no room in the trees for a prisoner, certainly not one so…risky as this Gollum. He will be fed and well cared-for in the dungeons. By the look of him, he spent much of his life out of the sun. The dungeons will do him no further harm.”

The thought of any creature imprisoned in the dungeons clearly distressed Legolas, but Thranduil saw no alternative. He was not troubled by his son’s reaction, given Legolas’s childhood mishap in the dungeons and the incidents during his journeys abroad. From what the warriors said, Legolas seemed to have a knack for getting himself buried.

***

Outside the throne room, Aragorn noticed Princess Silivren and Lady Merilin talking among a clutch of other she-elves--and making little effort to hide their interest in Aragorn. Either they cared not that he could hear their words, or the strength of human hearing had been grossly underestimated by the Silvan elves. “Men are so much more bulky than elves,” murmured Tuilinn, the redhead.

“But I find that rather appealing,” added Edlothia. “His body appears so…powerful.”

“I did not expect him to be so tall,” whispered Merilin. “Nor so graceful. I should enjoy watching him fight.”

“Perhaps we might persuade him to a friendly bout with some of our warriors?”

“There is an idea. I suspect Candrochon might be persuaded.” (Giggle!)

“I’ve never seen a man, so I’ve naught to compare him to,” Silivren replied. “Do you suppose he bears any resemblance to Beren?”

“If so, I understand Luthien far better now!” The was a flurry of muted giggling.

“But he is quite well-favored, is he not, Galithil?”

“I think so. Here, Elunen, you’ve seen many men, what do you think?”

“I fought in the Last Alliance beside many men, and met my share since. There were some quite handsome, and yet…this one is different. He seems almost familiar.”

Aragorn tensed at those words, but at that moment, Legolas emerged from the Great Hall. “My father has agreed to keep Gollum here.” With a knowing grin, he added, “So take heart. He is off your hands.”

“Thank the Valar!” Aragorn declared, and his friend laughed aloud.

Legolas noticed the small clutch of admirers and grinned more broadly. “I fear you shall find the hospitality of my kinswomen somewhat smothering while my kinsmen slightly lacking. I hope you enjoy your stay as much as I will.” His eyes sparkled with amusement at his friend’s expense.

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. “Oh I shall, particularly when I seize the opportunity to flirt with your niece. Lovely even by elven standards, that niece of yours.”

“I did not know you desired to become spider fodder!” Elf and man walked back out of the elven king’s halls. Legolas glanced fondly at Silivren. “She is a novice warrioress; her first coming of age was only twenty-two years ago.”

“She carries herself well for so young an elf.”

“She is her father’s daughter.” Legolas led him out of the cave and took an unconscious deep breath. Gazing about as though relieved to be out of doors, the elven king’s son said, “Come. You have not been here before. I will show you my father’s realm.”

“I would like to see it.”

***

For the next few days, Legolas led Aragorn threw the beeches and elms and dwellings of northern Mirkwood. His friend was a most gracious guest and expresses much admiration for the achievements of his people, but at the same time, Legolas knew that one who had already seen the lands and cities of Imladris and Lothlórien would probably find Mirkwood lacking. It was a frustrating notion. Legolas loved his home with all his heart, and though its dwellings were as fair as anything of elven make, the oppressive nearness of shadow marred its beauty. *Will any ever see the Greenwood as it once was? As my mother knew it, beautiful enough to rival even Rivendell and Caras Galadhon.*

They were walking by the archery fields watching several of the novices warriors practice when Candrochon came riding up. “Legolas, Mithrandir has come.”

“Ah,” said the elf, turning at once with Aragorn beside him. “Now perhaps we shall get some answers.”

They arrived at the palace to find Berensul greeting the Maia. Mithrandir turned and smiled at Aragorn. “Success at last, my friend. I am in your debt such efforts.”

“They paid off in the end.”

Mithrandir bowed to Legolas. “Well met, son of Thranduil. I understand I’ve you to thank for giving…Strider and his guest entrance into Mirkwood.”

The elf bowed back. “Both my people and I would gladly do any service you requested, Mithrandir. If you believe this Gollum must be kept safe within our borders, then we trust your judgment.”

“I am glad to hear it. Speaking of Gollum, where have you stashed him?”

Legolas felt a twinge of discomfort. “He is…being held in the dungeons.”

But the Maia’s face showed no sign of surprise or even disapproval. He simply nodded, “I should like to speak to him, if I may.”

“Of course,” Legolas smiled. “I daresay my father will have no objection. Candrochon, escort Mithrandir to Gollum’s cell, if you would be so kind.” He grinned as his friend shot him a fierce glare at being assigned such an unsavory task. Not that any elf objected to Mithrandir’s company, but Gollum’s cell was deep within the dungeons. Legolas would gladly have taken the wizard to see the prisoner himself, but for that fact. And this was one instance where rank had real privileges.

Which Candrochon’s wife noticed. “Well-executed,” Merilin murmured in Legolas’s ear. Although the youngest prince of Mirkwood was by no means in disfavor among the ladies of Mirkwood, their attentions toward him (and vice versa) went no further than easy camaraderie and friendship. But in the week since Aragorn had arrived, the elf had noticed a marked increase of she-elves in his company--whenever he and Aragorn happened to be together. The long memory of elves let Legolas recall easily the time when he had been the object of interest of many fawning ladies, as well as his extreme embarrassment at the time. Still…seeing Aragorn’s discomfort at the attentions of his friends, he had to admit…it was highly amusing.

He caught Salma and Silivren peering at the Ranger from behind a tree and was forced to bite his lip to avoid sniggering. Even the elder ladies, like Edlothia, Elunen, and Gwilwileth, found Aragorn an object of interest and curiosity, and so wherever the prince and the heir of Isildur went, a small fleet of she-elves was certain to follow. The kinsmen, husbands, and suitors of said she-elves, on the other hand, were highly UN-amused, and although Legolas suspected they were equally curious about the rare appearance of a mortal in their midst, they avoided Aragorn like the plague. When it came right down to it, the whole thing was incredibly funny.

***

That evening…

The elven king, as one would expect, invited Gandalf to dine with his family as a welcome and honored guest. He also invited Aragorn, as--the Ranger suspected--a reluctantly-tolerated guest.

Present at the meal were the Crown Prince Berensul, whom Aragorn had been introduced to only in passing, but seemed willing enough to accept his youngest brother’s word concerning the mortal stranger’s merits. He looked hardly anything like Legolas; the only trait they had in common was the dark gray eyes. And in contrast, the only trait Berensul did not have in common with his father was that the prince’s hair was dark. Aragorn had met Berensul’s wife, the Crown Princess Eirien, before when she came to Imladris for healing instruction from Lord Elrond. Even if she had not, Aragorn would recognize her as Rivendell-bred by her looks alone: the golden-brown hair, not as dark as a wood elf’s, fair skin, and deep blue eyes. And like most elves who had spent centuries under the tutelage of Lord Elrond, she was both wise and firm. Though gentle, mild, and soft-spoken, Aragorn had seen enough of her to know that beneath the sweet exterior lay a will as strong as mithril.

Then of course, there was their young daughter, Silivren. Though comparable to Aragorn in actual years, the elven princess looked no older than a mortal teenager. Now that she sat among her closest kind, Aragorn could see some resemblance to all of them. She had her mother’s deep eyes and her father’s face, but her golden hair was closer to Thranduil’s than Legolas. In fact, Legolas was the only one of her kindred whom Silivren did not seem to share any physical traits with. On the other hand, Aragorn had seen enough of her merry spirit in the past few days to suspect that it was personality in which novice warrioress most closely resembled her uncle.

Aragorn had no doubt that Thranduil had serious misgivings about his friendship with the king’s youngest son, the depth of which had been shown by the amount of time Legolas and Aragorn had spent together in the past week. This was the first time since Aragorn’s arrival that he or Legolas had supped formally with the elven king, and there was no mistaking the daggers Thranduil’s eyes shot at the Ranger when Legolas indicated for him to be seated at the prince’s side. Gandalf certainly did not miss it.

Gandalf had spent several hours in the dungeons with Gollum, and after the necessary small talk, conversation turned inevitably to the matter that had brought him. “Did you learn anything useful from him?” Thranduil inquired.

Undiscouraged, the wizard shook his head. “I fear not, but I expected not to draw anything from him so soon; it has only been one day. We shall talk again on the morrow, and again and again, if necessary until Gollum wearies so of my presence that he tells me his tale merely to be rid of me.” The company laughed.

The Lady Eirien wrinkled her nose slightly. “I visited him in the dungeons shortly after he came to make certain his health was well. He is a loathsome creature.”

“Nay, my lady, I would not despair of him yet. There may still be hope for his cure,” replied Gandalf.

“But you said he has… lived long beyond the years of his kind,” spoke up Legolas, choosing his words carefully due to the fact that it had been decided that knowledge of the One Ring should not go beyond Legolas, Thranduil, Gandalf, and Aragorn. “Surely…now he must die soon.”

“Soon by elven standards, perhaps, but not his,” the wizard said. “It is possible that before the end of his life he will at least find peace.”

The elves and Ranger digested Gandalf’s words. In a soft voice, Legolas said, “Then we should not keep him ever in the dungeons under the earth, for none will find peace there. Surely he can be guarded elsewhere.”

None missed the sharp, quelling look Thranduil shot his youngest son before turning instead to address Gandalf. “As I told my son already, Mithrandir, the encroachment of shadow upon my realm has forced many of my people to take shelter close to the palace, and within it. We once did use cells in the trees as places to hold prisoners, but necessity has forced us to convert them into dwellings. There is no room for Gollum in the outer palace where he would not be too close to the elves.”

The wizard narrowed his eyes, but nodded. “I have seen how dark and close the Enemy’s creatures draw, and the number of refugees here. Your task is a hard one, Lord Thranduil, I recognize.”

“Then perhaps we might find a medium,” offered Silivren suddenly. “Surely if we cannot let Gollum dwell above the earth all the time, it would not be beyond the scope of his guards to lead him out of the dungeons during the day. After all, he must be guarded in any case, whether in the cave or without.”

This time, Thranduil and Gandalf both nodded. “A wise suggestion, young princess,” said the wizard, inclining his head to her. Aragorn hid a smile at the way Eirien’s chin lifted proudly. *Mothers. Elf or mortal, they are all the same.*

“Then we are agreed,” said Thranduil. A twinkle came then into the elven king’s bright eyes as he turned his gaze to his youngest son. “Since Legolas is so keen to bestow kindness upon Gollum, I shall place him in command of the creature’s guards.”

Hardly an appetizing assignment, but Legolas took it with good humor. “As you wish, Father,” he replied mildly, with a little nod. Then he glared at Aragorn as the Ranger stifled a snigger. Silivren caught it and was not so successful in hiding a giggle. As Aragorn was a guest, Legolas had to bear his taunts, but now the prince fixed a mock-scowl at his young niece, and said in a near-drawl, “Guarding Gollum seems a suitable task for a few novice warriors. I think this would be an excellent training exercise for Silivren, do you not agree, Berensul?”

The crown prince grinned. “Most definitely. I’m sure Eregdos can be persuaded to release her to your command, Brother.”

“Assuming you’ve no objections, Sili?” Legolas asked wickedly.

But Silivren came back with a weapon of her own. “None at all, Uncle Leg’las.”

Gandalf nearly choked on a piece of meat, Eirien hastily covered her mouth, and even Thranduil’s lips quirked. Aragorn raised a mocking eyebrow at his friend and said, “Leg’las?”

“She’ll pay for that.”

***

A few days later…

Legolas met Gandalf at the entrance to the inner palace as the Maia came out. “You were within the dungeons long,” said the prince. “Was he more cooperative?”

Gandalf nodded thoughtfully, his mind still partly occupied by his own thoughts on what Gollum had told him. Then he noticed Legolas’s anxious expression, and smiled. “Forgive me, my lord, I fear my own musings on his tale are distracting me. It seems his true name, or perhaps it would be better to say, the name of the person he once was, is Sméagol. For one thing, it confirms accounts given me by other sources. And fortunately, it seems that his desire to possess the Ring kept it out of reach or knowledge of others for most of the time that he had it.”

“Thank the Valar,” sighed Legolas.

“Be not so hasty, son of Thranduil,” said Gandalf gravely. “I have learned that Gollum was taken in Mordor by the Enemy’s forces.” The elf turned pale. “How he escaped the Dark Lord’s dungeons, I know not, but it is beyond all doubt that there all he knew was forced from him.”

“Then…”

“Then the Enemy knows now that the One is found.” Gandalf knew that Thranduil, the crown prince, the captain of Mirkwood’s guard, and indeed half of the Silvan elves between here and Rivendell would have questions for him on the subject of Gollum, but only to Legolas did he impart these facts. For it was Legolas who most needed to be aware of what he held, here in his father’s halls. It was vital that Gollum be kept safe. “Knowing these things, I must depart with all speed. Forgive me if I say not where I go, but swift action is of the essence. Legolas,” the Maia placed a firm hand on the elven archer’s shoulder. “Be wary. Underestimate not the malice of Gollum, for long was he exposed to the corruption of the One. He would wreak much mischief if he were free now even as I seek to keep the One from the Enemy’s reach. He cannot be allowed to escape.”

To any other elven warrior, such words might almost be insulting, as though Gandalf did not trust them to do their duty well. But Legolas was unlike other elves in many ways, some subtle, others strangely fundamental, which Gandalf knew even as he spoke. So it surprised him not at all that Legolas merely nodded gravely and took the words in the spirit that they were intended, as a well-meant and well-deserved warning of the danger of the situation in which the keepers of Gollum now found themselves.

“Sméagol will be safe here, Mithrandir.”

Gandalf smiled. “Knowing that his protection is in your charge eases my mind greatly, Legolas of Mirkwood. But remember also what I told you, and hope still for his recovery. Given time and kind treatment away from the corruption of the Ring, he may yet be cured of his malice.”

With that, Gandalf went to the outer palace and bade farewell to the elven king and his elder children, giving them a brief description of what he had learned from Gollum. Thranduil was more inclined to accept sketchy explanations from the wizard than he would from most other visitors to his realm, and let Gandalf go without prying too heavily. Gandalf suspected Thranduil’s easy acceptance of his words had much to do with the fact that he was taking Aragorn with him when he departed. So the Maia counted his blessings when the elven king released them, and wasted no time collecting the Ranger. There was much still to be done.

Legolas escorted Gandalf and Aragorn from the palace to the gates, followed by a small crowd of elves bidding farewell to the wizard and taking a last look at the strange mortal who had spent so much time in their midst. The elven men were casual enough in their goodbyes. Among the ladies, on the other hand, could be heard many sighs of regret.

Turning on their horses outside the gates, Gandalf and Aragorn each raised a hand in farewell to the elven prince. “Guard him well, son of Thranduil.”

Legolas raised his hand in a salute of his own. “We shall not fail, Mithrandir!”

That final reassurance given, the man and the Maia turned their mounts and rode away at a gallop, eager to reach the Shire as soon as possible, and leaving Legolas standing at the gate, with Gollum now in his charge.

*****


	29. Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

“It looks like rain.”

“You are raving, Salma, the sky is as clear as a bell!”

“Nay, Salma is right, I think it looks like rain.”

“So you say for the same reason as she, Sornhén.” Princess Silivren, daughter of Crown Prince Berensul, scowled up at the clear blue sky. “It does NOT look like rain. You shall not avoid our duty.”

The other two novices pulled faces at her. “You would hate this duty as much as we do if the guard in charge were not your uncle,” grumped Salma, daughter of Ulban, the elven king’s first Steward.

Silivren narrowed her eyes sharply, “And what fault have you with my kinsman?”

Sornhén raised his hands hastily, “No fault, I grant you. I simply wonder why we must bother carting Gollum’s loathsome carcass through the trees every day.”

“Because,” said a stern voice behind them, “the fact that Sméagol merely looks unpleasant is not reason enough to trap him under the earth indefinitely. Mithrandir himself bade us still hope for his cure, and we shall honor the request.”

The three novices looked up guiltily as Legolas walked onto the bridge to join them, his face firm but with a mirth in his eyes that told them he was more amused than annoyed. Gazing past them into the entrance to the elven king’s inner halls, he ordered, “All three of you shall take him. If he behaves, let him climb the tree in the clearing to the north, so long as you are well back before dark.”

“Yes, sir,” the novices saluted Legolas with saucy grins, and disappeared into the cavern. Returning with a grumbling but otherwise tame Gollum on a lead rope, they nodded to the other elves and walked him out of the gates. Legolas raised a casual hand at Sili as they departed.

“I wish Prince Legolas were one of the novice masters,” sighed Salma. “He is not nearly so strict as Eregdos or Fimsigil.”

“If he were a novice master, I wager that he would be,” replied Silivren. Still, she mused, Salma was right. While a firm leader with any elves under his command, Legolas had a reachable nature that most of the novice masters did not. He was very easy to speak to, more like a comrade than a superior. It was strange; many of the other elven warriors of Legolas’s generation were also gaining their first commands, and all of them seemed to relish it far more than Legolas. While few could be called power-happy, none save Legolas seemed to mind being addressed as “sir.” And Legolas was the same about his nobility; one of the first orders he always gave those under his command was not to call him “my lord.”

Salma was speaking again, “Even if he were a novice master, I do not think he would pull rank.”

“Rank, nay, but he would be strict,” Silivren countered. “That is a novice master’s duty after all, and a commander’s. As a superior, Legolas is strict now.”

“But not to you,” Sornhén muttered sourly.

Silivren turned quickly, “And what do you mean by that?”

“Do not dissemble; you know you are his favorite. He will always be soft on you,” Sornhén sounded cross.

The princess fixed a hard glare at him. “Uncle or no, neither Legolas nor any other warrior would favor one novice over another, as you know full well, son of Varnorn. And if any of the masters hear you spreading talk like that, they’ll have you walking punishment tours for a month! To say nothing of the satisfaction I shall demand if I catch you slandering my father’s brother!”

Salma sided with Sili, “Quite right, Sorn, you are just angry because Legolas punished you for snapping Gollum’s rope without cause.”

“It did not harm him!”

“What are we, orcs? You’d no call to torment the poor creature,” scolded Salma.

“True, my ire would be better served by snapping a rope at that Ranger.”

“Are you STILL out of sorts because your Nandelle was admiring him? You boys were more cross than dwarves when Legolas’s friend was here!” snorted Silivren.

“You would be cross if your suitor was making up to some strange lady!”

“And I am sure your Nandelle will remind you of those words the next time you are goggling at the Lady Arwen,” Sili retorted. (Nandelle was an apprentice musician, daughter of Thranduil’s head minstrel, and Sornhén’s intended.)

Salma smirked, flipping her brown plait over her shoulder. “I believe Lady Merilin reminded Candrochon of that very thing when he was in a miff over Strider.”

“But Candrochon is her husband!” protested Sornhén. “How could she admire anyone, man or elf?”

Silivren melodramatically placed her hands on her heart, “ ‘Oh, the Evenstar, my heart doth weep before her beauty!’ Candrochon said those very words when he was in the middle of courting Merilin! And Arwen poses far more of a threat to us than that Strider did to you. None of us intend to go the way of Luthien, though that Ranger did make it seem a more believable thing than before!”

“Sili!”

“Oh, peace, Sorn! Just because an elf becomes attached does not mean they cease to notice beauty, as you and Doron always remind us when you are oggling some Lorien maid. Why should you boys have all the fun?”

“Hmph.” Then Sornhén stared at her. “You were barely five years old when Candrochon and Merilin were courting. How could you know whether he said such things?!”

“Well, for one thing, you did,” giggled Salma.

“And so did Candrochon,” added Silivren firmly. “I know because Merilin told me. Or rather, I overheard her telling my uncle.”

“Eavesdropping, you mean,” grumbled Sorn, but there was a twinkle of mirth in his gray eyes.

“So is Candrochon speaking to Merilin again?” asked Salma.

“Him?” Sili laughed. “He never stopped, whatever gossip said to the contrary. Candrochon knew even as he feigned outrage at Merilin that he has been caught making eyes at other ladies far too often to claim any insult by Merilin’s admiring a man. The same holds true for the others; their reaction was merely the result of mass bruising of the ego.” Salma laughed and even Sornhén began to grin sheepishly.

“Poor things. Do you suppose it is the same among men, or are elven males the only ones who dislike finding the shoe upon the other foot?” asked Salma. “Eh, Sorn? Any thoughts?”

Sorn did not answer. The maidens giggled harder. “Here,” said Sili, pointing. “We have reached the glade. Well, Gollum, you’ve behaved like a proper…thing…today, so we shall allow you a good climb.”

The three guards stationed themselves below the tree as Gollum grudgingly allowed them to remove his rope and then mounted up the branches. “This is the best-behaved he has been yet,” remarked Sorn. “I wonder what it means.”

“As Salma said, we are not orcs,” said Sili. “Perhaps he has realized that he will not be mistreated, but rewarded if he cooperates with us.” She moved away from the base of the tree to where she could see Gollum, settled on the high branches where he could feel the free wind. Salma and Sornhén remained by the trunk. “We’ve a few hours until dark. Let us leave him in peace for another hour.”

***

On the archery fields, about an hour later…

Legolas glanced up at the sun, causing his companions to snort and sigh theatrically. “By the Valar, have done, Legolas!” exclaimed Candrochon. “You cannot stand over them every hour!”

The warrior grinned sheepishly at his friend, “Perhaps I am a bit overanxious--”

“--overanxious? I would say neurotic,” laughed Galithil, coming to take aim at the target next to Merilin’s.

Merilin fired an arrow cleanly into her own target and stepped back so her husband could shoot, “After all, remember how irritated we were when the novice masters hovered too close. Give your novices some trust. They are well-trained.”

“Nay, friends, it is pointless. Forget not that his niece is one of said novices,” said Candrochon, shaking his head as he took aim. The others chuckled.

Legolas changed the subject. “A messenger arrived from Imladris this morning. Faron sent us a greeting. Did anyone else receive aught?”

“Yea, Glorfindel sent Eregdos the latest reports on orc activity on the plains, and he and the senior captains were immured in the king’s war room for four hours, muttering and exclaiming among themselves from behind the scrolls,” grumbled Candrochon. “As if anything those creatures do in the mountains is worse than what we are getting from Dol Guldur.” Several of the other young warriors on the practice range voiced their agreement.

“You have not heard?” asked Galithil. “The Enemy has attacked Osgiliath.” At that moment, Candrochon had been releasing an arrow, but his reaction to Galithil’s words caused him to miss the target completely. Merilin also stared in dismay, and Legolas nodded in confirmation.

Turning back to his target, Legolas asked absently, “Are the captains talking of it to us already?”

“Nay, Faron told me in his letter.”

“Oh--what? Faron made no mention…” Legolas trailed off and stared at Galithil. A slow grin crossed his face as the warrioress blinked in confusion, then began to blush. “So, when did you begin rating a letter of your own from Faron?”

Galithil blushed harder. Merilin and several of the others let out a squeal of excitement, and Candrochon made a bawdy noise. “Soooo…a private correspondence between the daughter of the captain of Mirkwood and a warrior of Imladris! Things are looking up!”

Putting her hands on her hips playfully, Merilin inquired, “And just how long has this been going on, my eligible warrior-maid?”

Now scarlet from ear to ear, Galithil replied sheepishly, “Since he visited with the messengers five years ago.”

Whistles and squeals rang out from the warriors, and Legolas added his triumphant cries to the eager voices of the warriors who now converged upon Galithil, embracing and roughing her up good-naturedly. Candrochon clapped his hands and sang, “Somebody’s being cour-ted, somebody’s being cour-ted!”

Tuilinn and Merilin tugged on Galithil’s plaited hair over her shrieks of protest, “What do you mean, keeping such a thing secret for five years! Some friend you are!”

“Ai! Be off! Ow! Stop!” (Giggle! Squeal!) “Well--ai!--he has not been courting me for all that long, and we have not even told my father yet! Aah! No! Don’t tickle me--eeee! THAT is why!” At last the warriors desisted, and Galithil caught her breath enough to continue. “Only six months ago did he ask me to come to Rivendell.”

Now all of the warriors screamed simultaneously, and it was not long before the commotion brought others running. Hearing of Galithil’s news added their congratulatory cries to the tumult, but it all came to a quick halt when Eregdos, captain of the warriors of Mirkwood--and more importantly, Galithil’s father--appeared. The warrior captain was not angry--yet--merely puzzled. “What by the Valar is all this excitement about?”

“Ahh,” stammered Candrochon.

“By the Valar, is that the time?” murmured someone. The elves quickly began creeping away.

The closest of Galithil’s friends, loyal and steadfast to her, reacted predictably in the face of her father’s discovery of her suitor. “I think I’ll go check on Gollum,” Legolas said hastily, and bolted, with Candrochon and Merilin a step behind him.

They had just fled the range when they heard Eregdos’s bellow of “WHAT?!?!”

***

About the same time…

“The sun grows low, Sili, we should be getting back,” said Sornhén.

Rising from where she had been reposing in the grass, Silivren nodded in agreement. Salma looked up at the dark figure on the high branches. “Come down now, Sméagol, it will be dark soon.”

The shriveled face turned from the breeze to blink overlarge eyes down at the elves…then deliberately turned back to the sky. Gollum did not move. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” said Silivren in disgust. “He would choose now to be difficult. Gollum!” she shouted. “You have had over an hour in that tree. If you wish any time in it at all tomorrow, you will return now!” After a long pause with still no response, she threatened, “Or shall we come up there and retrieve you?”

Gollum swiveled his head to stare directly at Silivren, then slowly inched back down the branches. The young guards sighed softly, but as Gollum gained the trunk, instead of coming down, he climbed higher. Silivren gritted her teeth in exasperation as Gollum crawled out onto one of the highest branches that would support his weight. “Wonderful,” sighed Salma beside her. “Now what?”

“Perhaps we might still pull him down,” suggested Sornhén.

“That will be a chore. Perhaps a few arrows close to him will frighten him down,” murmured Sili. She glanced around. “None of us are in charge of Gollum himself. I think we should send for Legolas.”

“If I start now, and return with him on horseback, it would still be light,” suggested Sornhén.

Salma nodded, “That is a good idea. We should wait.” Sili also agreed, and Sorn ran quickly into the trees.

***

Legolas was at the stables with Candrochon and Merilin when Sornhén came in. “My duty, my lord,” he said with a quick salute.

“There is trouble?” Legolas asked sharply as his friends hurried over.

“We let Gollum climb the tree in the clearing, but now he refuses to come down. He has gone very high, and we thought not to try and force him without consulting you first. Silivren and Salma guard the tree still.”

Legolas nodded, “That is well. Come,” he pulled Sornhén up onto his own horse.

“Shall we accompany you?” offered Merilin.

Legolas considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “I will send for more guards if they are needed, but we may yet have him down before dark. Sméagol likes to be difficult simply for sport at times.” Making sure Sorn was secure behind him, he sent his horse into a gallop.

***

As Sili and Salma waited below the tree, the sun had fallen only slightly lower in the skies when Sornhén returned on a horse behind Legolas. “Luck, young ones,” Legolas said by way of greeting. “I was on my way to you when Sornhén called to me.” He dismounted and glared up into the tree. “Gollum!”

No answer, not even a glance. Salma scowled, “Perhaps a few arrows into the branches nearest him might persuade him.”

Legolas pulled his mouth to one side in a grimace. “Nay, I would not be party to wounding him without cause. Perhaps we might pull him from the bows.”

“I am the only one who would reach so high,” Silivren said matter-of-factly. “If we are to try it, then I must go.”

The idea clearly troubled Legolas, but the princess’s words were accurate; any of the others would cause the trunk to bend dangerously with their weight. Sili was by far the lightest. Looking critically at the tree, he sighed at length. “Very well. Be careful.” Despite the neutral tone, neither of the other two novices missed the worry in his voice.

Sili swiftly mounted up the sturdy lower limbs of the high tree and followed the path Gollum had taken. Seeing her approach, the contrary creature began edging his way as far out onto the branch as possible. The princess swore to herself; this would be difficult.

After a few moments, she gained the upper bough where Gollum had made his stance and began pulling herself carefully out. To her surprised relief, the branch was much stronger than it had appeared, and she was soon close enough to grab for him. “Come on, you pesky creature! I shall have you down from this tree! Errgh!” She secured a hold on one thin arm and wrenched back for all she was worth. Light she was, but weak she was not.

“Errrr! Loose us! No! No! Nasty she-elf! Going to lock poor Sméagol away again! Not again! Wicked elf! Gollum! Gollum! Sméagol likes the tree, nice tree! Let Sméagol stay in the tree! Not coming down!”

Even as Gollum protested, Sili pried his other hand free of the branch and began pulling him back along the bough. But Gollum still fought, and suddenly managed to secure a surprisingly strong grip on the branch, this time with his feet. Sili grunted and leaned further out, trying to wrap an arm around Gollum’s torso to drag him loose. This Gollum greeted with an unearthly screech, and he began thrashing wildly, wrenching himself and his elven guard around on the narrow limb.

“Curse you, you--oomph--stubborn beast! If we fall, you’ll get us both killed! Cease this madness!” Sili snapped, attempting to smite Gollum on the ear while grabbing a smaller limb over her head for balance.

“No! No! Not going! Yes! Kill nasty elf, wicked she-elf! Sméagol stays, she falls!”

With a violent jerk, Gollum swung dangerously over the edge of the branch, still holding on with his feet. But the motion tested the branch Sili was holding too violently, and with a loud crack, it snapped in her hand, overbalancing her clear off the limb. With a scream of panic, she released her hold from Gollum in an effort to seize another branch to catch herself, but her grappling hands caught only air, then suddenly there was nothing beneath her feet, and the trees many limbs were sweeping by, its twigs and leaves scraping her body and face. She heard a chorused cry of her name from below as she flailed desperately for something to check her fall. She caught a brief image of two dark heads and a fair one rushing toward the base of the tree just before her forehead connected with one of the hard lower limbs. Light exploded in her vision with blinding pain, and her last thought as darkness swept around her was that the impact must have shattered her skull.

***

“NO!!” Legolas charged forward as he saw his niece lose her grip on the branch amid Gollum’s struggling and tumble down the trunk with a cry of terror. Halfway to the ground, Silivren’s forehead struck a tree limb with a sickening crack, and she hit the earth with a thud and lay there.

His heart in his throat, Legolas fumbled for her pulse. Salma and Sornhén stood anxiously behind him, fighting tears of despair. “Is she…” whispered Salma.

Legolas gasped aloud in relief as he felt blood still throbbing along Silivren’s veins. He carefully turned her over. Her eyes were closed, and a terrible bruise had already appeared upon her forehead near the hairline, blood trickling down her temple. She was scraped in many places, her clothing torn, and one arm lay at an odd angle. The warrior’s gentle touch revealed that the bone was broken, and Sili moaned. “We must get her back now,” Legolas murmured, trying to control his voice. Swallowing hard and forcing his own frantic emotions under control, he looked up, feeling black rage at the cackling Gollum still perched in the tree. “Stay here,” he told Salma and Sornhén. “Do not attempt to climb after him again. I shall send more guards as soon as I reach the palace. When they arrive, surround the tree and wait until morn, then we shall try again.” He glared furiously up at Gollum, *And pray my anger has cooled by then, or I shall shoot your miserable body down from that tree myself!*

But there was no time to hurl words at the creature while his niece lay bloody and unconscious in his arms. Carefully, Legolas lifted Silivren and bore her gently onto the back of his horse, mounting behind her. “Stay alert,” he ordered Salma and Sornhén as he sent his mount into a gallop.

Though she was still unconscious and the horse’s strides were smooth, Silivren moaned faintly as Legolas held her against his chest, trying his best not to jolt her or jar her broken arm. “Rest easy, little Nimrodel,” he murmured, fighting the terror that coursed through him. Inside, his mind cried, *How could I have let this happen? I should never have allowed her to climb up that tree, better that we had sent for more guards, or shot Gollum down! Why did I not suspect Gollum would take any opportunity to harm one of us!*

Forcing himself away from those anguished thoughts, Legolas concentrated stubbornly on getting them home. As the sun set, he rode straight through the gates to the foot of the palace steps, hearing cries of dismay as he dismounted with the limp princess in his arms. The door opened, and Legolas turned to see Eirien, frozen in her tracks, her face devoid of color as she took in the state of her daughter. When Eirien’s eyes raised from Silivren’s face to Legolas, it was all he could do not to burst into tears.

Silivren’s mother rallied herself admirably, though her voice trembled, “Bring her inside, quickly!”

Legolas rushed up the steps, taking care not to jostle the unconscious girl. Following Eirien to the royal chambers, he gently laid Sili on her bed as other healers raced through the door. Berensul came and demanded foremost question on every mind, “What happened?”

“Gollum,” Legolas said shortly. “He refused to come down from the tree in the clearing. Silivren…I sent her up after him, but he struggled, and she fell. She struck her head upon a branch.” Berensul’s face flashed many emotions as he pushed past Legolas to his daughter’s side. Legolas stepped out of his brother’s and the healers’ way and hastily summoned a servant. “Guards must be sent to the glade to assist Salma and Sornhén. Swiftly, it grows dark.”

“Yes, my lord,” the servant hurried to tell the warriors milling outside the chambers.

Legolas turned back to the healers, where Eirien was examining Silivren’s bloodied head. “How is she?” he asked softly. In the brief second it took Silivren’s mother to look up, Legolas thought surely he would die if Eirien spoke any words of blame. Already his own heart was tearing with guilt so deeply that he wanted to scream.

But Eirien’s eyes, when they rose from her daughter to meet her brother-in-law, held no reproach, although they were wild with anguish. She closed them briefly, then swallowed hard and said, “I think…she will be all right.” Legolas sucked in a gulp of air, and Eirien went on, “Her skull was concussed, but not cracked, and her arm is broken. One of her ribs may be cracked, but,” she sighed heavily, looking suddenly aged. “She will recover.”

A violent shudder forced itself free in spite of all Legolas’s efforts, and Berensul turned, his eyes red, and gripped his brother’s shoulder. “You brought her back,” he said, his voice also tight with fear and grief. Legolas had to look away, but returned Berensul’s grip. His brother’s voice hardened. “Where is that murderous beast?”

“Still in the tree,” *Curse him! Curse him to Angband for eternity!* “I have sent more guards to relieve Salma and Sornhén for the night, then on the morrow we shall decide how best to bring him down.”

“I can think of a few ways,” the crown princess murmured as she administered a heavier sleeping draught so she could set her daughter’s arm.

Legolas smiled humorlessly, “You speak for me, Lady. Were it not for Mithrandir’s word…” he shook his head, fury and disgust at Gollum--as well as himself--surging through him. “Mithrandir’s word may keep him alive, but by my bow he shall not walk in the forest again. That privilege is lost to him after this.”

A sudden commotion outside made them look up. A quick rap on the door was followed by a frantic Candrochon entering and bowing hastily to them. Eirien’s eyes widened and she started forward as she beheld the blood from a wound on the warrior’s face. “Forgive me, my lady--My lords, we are under attack!”

“What?” Legolas and Berensul sprang forward.

“Orcs, from the mountains, many of them! They came from the north, Legolas,” Candrochon’s face was wild with panic, “they are between us and the tree where Gollum is under guard! We cannot reach it!”

It was as though two trolls had seized Legolas by each of his arms and torn him violently in two. He wavered, looking at his unconscious niece and the desperate warrior before him. “Go,” said Eirien, and the paralysis vanished.

Legolas bolted from the royal chambers at a dead run, seizing his weapons from a servant as he sprinted down the steps in a crowd of other warriors rushing to defend against the assault. “My horse!” he roared, and the mount was swiftly brought. Springing to its back, Legolas sent the creature into a full run northwest, towards the glade where Salma and Sornhén were waiting for reinforcements.

Darkness seemed thick in the trees as though the shadow that hung over southern Mirkwood had somehow oozed into the elven king’s realm. Legolas’s heart pounded wildly in his chest as the distant sounds of clashing metal, battle cries, and orc shrieks reached his ears. He found himself suddenly at the head of the riders, and it hit him in a rush of new anxiety that because these were his guards being assaulted, HE was in command of the reinforcements!

“Split the group,” he ordered the riders. “We shall come around and hit them from both sides! Watch your backs!” Not an eye was batted at this, his first order, no arguments made, not even from the warriors who had been commanding whole legions for centuries before Legolas was born.

Legolas led the southern group while the other half surged to cut the orcs off on their northern side. He strained his senses as the sounds of the battle grew closer. “Torches!” he shouted.

The moonless and starless night was suddenly bathed in red and orange glow as each rider lit a torch, casting back the shadows. Far through the trees, Legolas could see another mass of torches appear, revealing orcs and elves striving in the space between. Adding his own voice to the chorused roar of challenge, the prince brandished his torch in one hand, a spear in another and charged into the fray.

The orcs were numerous and fierce, but they clearly were unused to fighting in the wood and unprepared for an assault from the trees. Legolas skewered one orc and set another ablaze before the creatures realized reinforcements had arrived. When his spear was at last broken in the crush of bodies, he discarded it and took up his long knife. It was a time-honored lesson among warriors that one’s emotions must never command one’s actions in battle, for rage was apt to make one careless, but it could not be denied that rage at the injuries to his niece burned like a hot coal fire within Legolas as he laid waste to every orc that came within reach.

The only light came from the torches, and orcs, elves, and trees whirled around him in some sort of bizarre and evil dance. Beneath the black sky, Legolas would not have known what direction he faced at any given time had he bothered to look. Nor had he any idea how much time passed before the familiar shriek of retreat was sounded, and the orcs broke and ran. Legolas staggered and leaned against a tree, wiping blood off his face from a minor wound he had not felt, and took his bearings.

Orc corpses lay everywhere, and a few elves lay gravely wounded. Legolas summoned several warriors. “To the tree,” he ordered, jogging through the carnage.

More torches were brought and lit as more elves arrived, and Legolas led the warriors into the clearing. The battle had been south of the glade, but there were a few orc corpses here. Legolas jammed his teeth into his lower lip, and heard moans of despair behind him as the torches filled the clearing with light.

There had been a smaller battle here, and pitifully one-sided.

Against the base of the tree lay a novice elven warrior, his body pierced by many arrows, his life finally ended by a vicious club-blow to the head. It was Sornhén. Legolas took a shaky breath and knelt beside the young elf, closing the sightless eyes before any others could spot the terror in them. Against such a force, the two second-century novices had never stood a chance. Rising, Legolas turned to the others and found his voice strangely steady. “Take Sornhén back to the palace,” he said quietly.

“My lord, Salma is missing. Her weapons are here, but she is not,” came Edlothia’s frightened voice as the elves began sweeping their torches frantically through the trees.

Legolas beckoned quickly for four warriors to bear Sornhén’s body back to the palace, then rushed to join the others searching. Examining the tracks of the orcs, Legolas noted with still-mounting dread that one of them had left bearing a heavy weight. The fire glowed in his eyes as he looked up at the warriors. “Salma is taken. We must go after them.”

“My lord, what about Gollum?” asked Candrochon.

Immediately, several dozen torches were pointed up toward the tree, casting their glow upon its limbs. While the light was not brilliant, it was enough for the elves to see clearly that the branches were empty. Gollum too was gone. “He may have been taken as well,” suggested Merilin.

“Possibly…” murmured another warrior as they set about following the orcs’ trail. But soon the elves called to Legolas, “My lord!”

When he joined them, Legolas found the tracks that interested them: the marks of many orcs, but also a strange, rather shriveled pair of feet running free among them. “Gollum.”

“So he was taken,” said Candrochon.

“Nay,” Legolas whispered, pointing his torch at the tracks. “He was smaller than Salma, if wily. If they carried her in their haste, they would have little difficulty carrying him. And he was not bound in any way, or his tracks would show more hindrance.” Icy rage cascaded through him as the pieces came together. “He escaped. That is why he suddenly refused to come down from the tree. He must have known the orcs would be coming.” He sprang to his feet and began jogging faster after the tracks.

The other warriors hurried to keep up. “How could he have contrived that?” demanded Eregdos, appearing at Legolas’s side.

“I know not, sir, but they did. It is the only explanation.”

Had Eregdos ordered Legolas to give way and let him command the company, Legolas would have, but Eregdos did not, and it did not occur to the younger warrior. Long they followed the tracks through the trees by torchlight, feeling a deeper despair as the trail turned south. As the sun came up again, the sound of horses drew near, and in the back of the company the elves cried, “The king has come!”

Legolas and Eregdos rose from examining the trail and saluted as Thranduil rode up with several more warriors. “Have you any news of Salma or Gollum?”

Eregdos stepped back, so Legolas answered, “Nay, my lord. We are following the trail of the orcs, and Gollum’s is among them.”

Thranduil nodded briskly, “Report to me when there is any news. Beware drawing too near to Dol Guldur lest we bring more casualties home.”

“Yes, my lord.” As the elven king rode back north, Legolas looked around. “If we are to avoid attracting too much attention of Dol Guldur, we cannot follow this trail to its end. If we cannot reach them before they are within sight of it, we shall be forced to turn back.”

“I fear so, my lord,” sighed Eregdos, his voice heavy with sorrow. “And then we shall have to presume Salma lost, as well as Gollum.”

The urgency and concentration of the search was all that kept despair from overwhelming Legolas as he bent again to the trail, ignoring the ache in his back. “Let us make haste, then, while we still have hope.”

The trail of the orc band grew more chaotic and difficult to follow as the days rolled by. Shadow hung like an oppressive curtain, almost physical in form, as the elves ventured further south. Legolas could feel his heart beating frantically, his breath coming in quick gasps, while his mind whirled under the assault of shadow and his own conscience. *How could this have happened? How could I have LET this happen?!*

They had long since lost the trail of the one heavy orc who they believed to be carrying Salma, but still had some faint signs of Gollum’s trail, and followed them hoping that the prisoner and guest of the foul creatures were being kept close. All at once, a cry went up from the eastern flank of the searching elves. “My lord!”

There were tears in the herald’s voice. It could mean only one thing.

Legolas and Eregdos ran to the far end of the company, and found the elven warriors gathering in a grief-stricken semicircle. In a cluster of thorny bushes, deposited like a bundle of rubbish, lay Salma, youngest daughter of Ulban, sister of Gwilwileth. This time Legolas had not arrived fast enough, and the final bleak expression in the elven maid’s eyes had set many of the warriors sobbing. She was wounded in the leg, her clothing torn, and there was no doubt in any of their minds that she had been brutalized by her captors. Rising from examining her with tears streaming shamelessly down his face, the healer whispered, “I can find no fatal wound on her, my lord.”

Eregdos drew in a shaky breath, closing his eyes. After swallowing several times, he murmured, “She ended her own life then. To escape their torment.”

“Yes, Captain.”

As Legolas knelt beside the fallen warrioress, Eregdos’s voice came softly behind him, “Where is Gwilwileth?”

“She was wounded in the battle, my lord, Fimsigil removed her home.”

Again, Legolas found himself charged with the bitter task of closing Salma’s brown eyes to the world. His muscles were spasming painfully from the effort of holding back violent tremors. The effort of holding back sobs was so great that he dared not open his mouth. Reverently, Legolas wrapped Salma’s body in his own brown cloak, and lifted it gently. Two of the scouts came running back from where they had been following the trail. One stifled a sob at the sight, and the other said in a ragged voice, “My lord, the trail of Gollum is all but lost, and the shadow…”

Legolas glanced briefly at Eregdos, but the captain’s face revealed nothing. It was still his command. Taking a deep breath, Legolas forced all his will into speaking this one decision. “Then we shall break off the search. Gollum is presumed lost.”

“Yes, my lord.”

There was no judgment or resentment in the warriors’ voices at all, not even Eregdos’s, as the company turned sorrowfully for home, bearing the second of two dead novices and the black burden of failure. Between the two, the weight Legolas carried in his arms and upon his heart was so great, that throughout the long walk home there were times when he was certain that he fall dead of grief and shame right there. Only the sense of obligation gave him the strength to put one foot before the next, and he said not a word to anyone. But that at least was not out of place, for there was hardly any sound from any of the warriors save desperately stifled weeping.

Eregdos spoke up twice, both times quietly offering to take up Salma’s body for awhile. Both times, Legolas merely shook his head. He dared not speak, afraid his body and voice would betray him, but his mind rang with accusations. *She was under my command. Mine. Both of them were, and Gollum too in my charge. I left him to escape, left them to die. It was my charge. My responsibility…*

In all the years of his life, Legolas had berated himself before for mistakes, for the occasional missed shot, damaged weapon, sometimes even losing his quarry on a hunt. But now, bearing the body of a novice under his command, returning home without the prisoner he had sworn to guard…now he knew, bitterly and deeply, what it truly was to experience failure. Total, devastating, absolute failure. Failure that caused death. Failure that caused destruction. Failure the ramifications of which could not even be predicted as the information Gollum possessed that could mean the life or death of everything in Middle Earth. And Legolas had let him escape.

The journey home was both too long and too short, and Legolas had absolutely no real idea of the time it took, but suddenly he was leading the warriors back through the villages around the palaces, past the horrified gazes of his people. With each step, he was convinced that this failure could not possibly feel any worse, and with each horrified face or anguished sob, he was proven wrong.

Then they were passing through the palace gates, where the warriors and elves of the elven king’s household awaited them. A collective intake of breath went up as Legolas entered, and sobs and wails of grief rang out at the sight of the burden he carried. Among those cries came the one that Legolas had dreaded the most, and now cut into his heart like a poisoned sword. There came a scream, the anguished, hopeless scream of an elf woman seeing the joy of her life destroyed.

Salma’s mother, Alalmë, rushed forward, her arms outstretched hysterically, and would have knocked Legolas clean off his feet had not Ulban caught her shoulders and pulled her back. Gwilwileth, their eldest and now their only child, came behind them, stiff from her injury, but sobbing just as wildly as Ulban deposited his wife into his daughter’s arms. Alalmë fell to her knees, and she and Gwilwileth clung to each other, overwhelmed by grief. Ulban’s lack of tears stabbed Legolas with equal pain as the king’s first steward turned back to him and silently held out his arms for his daughter. As Legolas laid Salma in her father’s arms, Ulban met his eyes, and Legolas was stunned to find them red, filled with grief, but not an inkling of blame. The steward nodded shakily to Legolas in what seemed a wordless thanks, and turned to his wife and daughter. Trembling, trying valiantly but unsuccessfully to contain their sobs, Alalmë and Gwilwileth also nodded gratefully to him. Then they turned and walked into the palace, Alalmë leaning heavily on her daughter as all the elves, even Thranduil, silently gave way and bowed.

Legolas stood frozen where he was, unable to believe even as they left, that Salma’s family could not reproach him. *Can they not see? Were the facts kept from them, that they do not know of my responsibility for this calamity? Surely they would curse me if they knew!*

As the palace door closed on the mourners, Thranduil turned back to the newly-arrived warriors. His gaze swept over them, now completely expressionless. He noted Eregdos still standing just behind Legolas, and so asked the prince, “Report.”

“Sornhén fell when the orcs attacked the clearing where Gollum was under guard. I believe the attack was staged to orchestrate Gollum’s escape, for he was allowed to run freely among the orcs while Salma was taken prisoner. They had several hours ahead of us before we determined that she and Gollum were among them. We found Salma due west of East Bight, well south of Old Forest Road, abandoned by the orcs. The trail of Gollum was lost as we drew nigh of Dol Guldur. We turned back there.”

Thranduil nodded, his face betraying nothing. “How long were you gone?” Legolas faltered; in truth he had no idea how many days had passed. The elven king watched him for a moment, then turning to the other warriors, he declared, “Our realm shall mourn all this month for the daughter of Ulban and the son of Varnorn.” He paused again, taking in the haggard and grief-stricken faces of them all, “Forget not to look to yourselves.” With that, and not looking at Legolas, Thranduil turned and reentered the palace.

***

A few days later…

There was a quiet rap upon Thranduil’s study door. “Enter,” he ordered absently, pulling his troubled mind from the latest reports from the outlying villages. The door opened, and soft steps entered. Thranduil turned his face and smiled at the sight of his granddaughter. “Come in, my child.” Silivren bowed, and Thranduil rose in alarm as she wavered slightly. “Should you be up and about yet, Granddaughter, you are not yet fully recovered.”

Sounding slightly frustrated, Silivren murmured, “It has been two weeks.”

“Head wounds are nothing to be trifled with, young Lady,” Thranduil said firmly, taking her arm and guiding her to a soft chair. He sat down opposite her. “But now you are here, what troubles you?”

Taking a deep breath and dropping her gaze as though garnering courage, Silivren said, “It is Legolas.”

Thranduil’s jaw tightened reflexively. Silivren had always been touchy about discussing any troubles concerning Legolas with Thranduil, undoubtedly due to what she had witnessed as a child. The elven king had cursed himself many times in the past decades for their indiscretion in that quarrel. Forcing a calm tone, he inquired, “What of your uncle?”

“He has been back four days and has not spoken to anyone,” the young elf’s blue eyes were round and large with anguish. “He will not speak to me!”

The elven king swallowed hard. *Life is never more difficult than when the demands of realm and family collide.* Silivren was a novice warrior now, and Legolas one of her superiors, but then, when all was said and done…she was still Thranduil’s granddaughter, and Legolas’s niece. *For both my son and me, duty and love conflict where Sili is concerned.* Sili was watching him anxiously, and he sighed, “Silivren…forget not that Legolas is more than merely your uncle. In this mission, he was your commander, and he failed in that role.”

Silivren leapt to her feet, outrage on her young face, “How can you say such a thing?! None of this was his fault! He did not cause me to fall from the tree, nor could he have known the orcs would attack! Why do you blame him--”

“Sili!” Thranduil stood and seized her shoulders, for she was beginning to sway. “Sit down and calm down before you make yourself swoon. I told you that you must take care when recovering from a concussion. I shall explain things to you if you can keep your senses.”

Though highly displeased by her own frailty, Silivren crossed her arms sulkily and listened. “Well?”

*I should tell her to watch her tongue when she addresses me. Nay, today I shall make allowances; she is upset, and convalescing. There will be time to scold her on her manners later.* Aloud, he said, “Silivren, there is an important distinction between the many roles each member of our family must play. Legolas is your uncle, and in that he could never fail you. But as a warrior, and the commander of you, Salma, and Sornhén, and guardian of Gollum, he was charged with certain tasks. The protection of the lives of those under his command is every warrior’s responsibility, and the prevention of Gollum’s escape above all.” Thranduil sighed softly, seeing the dismay upon her face. “Fault is not a thing we often look to assign in the warrior’s craft, for as you say, there are many things that cannot be prevented. But responsibility must always be assigned, and whatever the circumstances, Legolas still failed in his responsibilities.”

Silivren’s lips were trembling, and Thranduil frowned inwardly. *Perhaps I should not have been so frank with her so soon. She is grieving still for her friends, and afraid for Legolas.* His granddaughter murmured, “After the fall…I have been sleeping deeply, and when I first wake it is difficult even to think. My father has said, and I have seen, Legolas is always at my bedside when I sleep. But as soon as I wake, he leaves, before I can speak to him.”

Thranduil sighed again. He had known that, for he himself had often been at Sili’s side while she recovered, but had hoped that she would not remember seeing Legolas there in her groggy state. She was not alone in her worry; Legolas had not spoken to anyone since returning from the south bearing Salma’s body, other than to inquire after Sili’s recovery. “Remember Legolas is mourning as well. He is your uncle and concerned for you, but he may prefer to grieve in private.”

“I heard…” Sili hesitated. “Some of the warriors who were on the long mission with Legolas say that…when his friend Tathar fell…he nearly died of grief.” Thranduil winced inwardly, understanding now the fear in her eyes. “I would not want…”

Taking her hand, the king said, “Fear not, child. He will survive. Give him time to face his sorrow, and his conscience, for it has only been a few days.”

Silivren scowled, “And how long do you intend to let him sorrow believing that not a one of us cares?”

“You are too young to understand.”

“And I grow weary of hearing that cowardly excuse.”

“Silivren!” Thranduil stood up and narrowed his eyes at her. “I understand you are upset by these events, but I will not tolerate insolence. You will look to your manners.” To his eyes, she still looked sullen, but at least she held her tongue. *Novices. She sulks like her father did.* In a calmer voice, the elven king went on, “I will not prevent you from approaching your uncle, but remember as a novice warrior, you are his subordinate, and if he orders it, you will behave accordingly. Just as you are my subject and heiress as well as my granddaughter, and I expect you to conduct yourself as such.”

The young elf’s obstinate little glare had been replaced by lowered eyes and a faint flush. In a quiet voice, Silivren murmured, “Forgive me. I behaved badly.”

Thranduil smiled and held out his hands, guiding her to her feet and gently kissed her brow. “These are trying days for us all, daughter of my son. But we are the leaders of our people, and it is our duty to set an example. If we lose control of ourselves, the loss of the realm will not be long in following.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“Be off with you now, and look also to your health. I do not desire forcing your mother to nurse you through a relapse.”

***

Despite the nobility of her intentions, Silivren found that her parents had no intention of allowing her out of the palace to seek her elusive uncle. After several minutes of protesting vigorously to no avail, the young princess allowed her mother to pack her into bed, on condition that she not be given yet another sleeping draught. “By the Valar, Mother, I sleep so heavily from this wound that I need no aid.” Eirien was convinced, and left Sili alone.

Her mother’s footsteps had barely died away when Sili was up, changing swiftly into her riding clothes. Her movements were a little slow, but with care, she was able to climb off the balcony and down the trunk of a nearby tree to freedom. Once upon the ground, she hurried to the stables.

For her last birthday, Legolas had given his niece a fine young stallion foaled by his own mare. Sili treasured the gift for two reasons, one because of Tingilinde’s fine bloodline, and the other because there were few places in Mirkwood where the colt could not find his dam. Though she knew riding was unwise only two weeks after her injury, fierce stubbornness kept Silivren from heeding her light-headedness as she mounted her horse. “Find Tinnu,” she ordered the stallion.

Tingilinde carried her down the north bank of the Forest River well beyond the wood elves’ immediate territory. Silivren would have been apprehensive if she had not been able to see clearly Tinnu’s tracks on the soft ground, which Tingilinde followed with ease. Legolas had certainly gone out of his way to avoid any contact with other elves.

A little ways further, Silivren came around a small bend in the river to find the object of her search sitting alone on the bank, gazing morosely into the swift flow. He did not look up at the sound of the horse’s approach. Even from the side, she could see the gloom that hung over him like a veil, the dejection in his posture, and the dimness of his eyes. She found it hard to believe that he did not notice her, but feared instead that his private sorrow denied him the energy or interest to look and see who had arrived. This was going to be harder than she had thought. She quietly dismounted, and took a few hesitant steps towards him. “Legolas?”

At least she got his attention. Her uncle’s head snapped toward her, alarm and dismay replacing melancholy, and he leapt to his feet. “Silivren! Have you lost all sense, riding all this way when you are--”

“--I know I am convalescing, Uncle, you need not remind me.”

Legolas pursed his lips, and Silivren remembered the things Thranduil had told her. Suddenly she realized she was facing the warrior who outranked her, rather than the uncle she hoped to reach. “Obviously you do need reminding if you engage in such foolhardy exercises. I would have thought you had been trained better.”

Silivren bristled, “You know why I came. Since you have not deigned to see me since your return, I sought you out myself.”

By the Valar, she had never seen him this way. His eyes looked so lifeless, and his voice was equally dead. “You know I have been to see you,” he replied flatly.

“And crept away every time I opened my eyes,” she retorted. “I want to talk to you. Do not put me off!” she snapped as he started to speak. “I may have been bedridden, but my eyes and ears work still. You have been skulking around like an orc afraid of the sunlight ever since you got back. It is time you began acting like an elf again!”

That was a mistake. Her uncle’s gray eyes hardened like steel and seemed to bore into her, causing her to take an involuntary step backward. She had never seen Legolas look like this. He sounded more like one of the captains as he said in a low, cold voice, “Mind you words, young novice, for you forget your place. You have no business making demands of me.”

Silivren swallowed hard against the lump of frustration and pain in her throat. *Why have you shut me out?* “Legolas,” she whispered desperately. “Please. I am sorry. It is only that I cannot stand you being like this. We are all mourning, and it would be better if you were with us.”

Legolas lowered his eyes again, and for a moment she thought she had gotten through. Then his jaw tightened, and he said, “I have no right to mourn alongside you, for I am responsible for…all that took place. I had obligations that I failed to meet.” He lifted his eyes and told her, “And one of them was for your safety, which I see is still in danger. I shall see you back to the palace before you are missed--”

“No,” she snapped, though her heart was breaking inside.

“Do not make me order you,” he said, unmoved.

With an under-breath curse, Silivren whirled and stalked back to her horse. “A wounded novice I may be, my lord, but I think I can still find my way home without your help. For I want none of your company if I may not speak to my uncle, who loves and listens to me, rather than this overbearing and embittered novice master he has become. But if it is your will to continue to sit here and wallow in your own guilt and self-pity, then as you say, I would be forgetting my place as your subordinate if I attempted to stop you.”

Legolas stared at her. Her hands shook as she beckoned to Tingilinde, and unshed tears stung her eyes. “I carry the burden of Salma and Sorn’s loss too, you know! Had I not been so reckless in trying to wrestle Gollum from that tree, you would have been there, and we might have held off the orcs long enough for reinforcements to come. They were my friends, you know!” The stallion whinnied softly at her side, and stifling a furious sob, she turned away from the silent Legolas and began to mount.

“Sili.”

The silence seemed to explode with that one quiet word. She dared not turn back, biting her lip fiercely, as the sound of quick, light strides was followed suddenly by his hands on her shoulders. He turned her gently around, and she forced herself to look at his face. The sight of his brimming eyes broke the last of her restraint, and she released a sob into her hands. Legolas pulled her into a tight embrace as she wept long and hard. “Forgive me,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I have not been thinking clearly.”

For much of the ten days Legolas had been gone with the company pursuing Gollum and the captive Salma, Silivren had been too incoherent from the concussion to realize what had happened. After regaining her senses, she had forestalled her own emotions as she awaited news of the search, and hoped that she and her uncle might face their grief together, as they had shared many things during the past forty years. When Legolas had instead shied away from her, she had felt naught but confusion. Now, at last, her grief boiled up, and she released it, sobbing into her uncle’s arms, for Salma and Sorn, for her failure, for their people being lost to the shadow, because it was all too much to bear.

***

After escorting Silivren back to the palace (and enduring a thorough tongue-lashing from Eirien over Sili’s being outside at all) Legolas walked to the archery range. Much of the normal routine in the elven king’s realm had been disrupted by the attack and the mourning for Salma and Sornhén, and there were no other elves practicing. Standing by himself, firing arrow after arrow into the targets of the silent field, Legolas felt at last the heavy weight of despair beginning to lift from him. He shot his last arrows into the farthest target, at an odd angle, but they struck home, and he felt an obscure comfort in that. His quiver empty, he sighed.

“I am glad to see you returned to yourself, my son.”

Legolas jumped. Even among his kindred, the senses of the youngest prince of Mirkwood were especially strong, and few of his kindred could boast the ability to sneak up on him. However, his father had always been one of them. Thranduil smiled slightly as his son turned to face him, looking sheepish. “I am, my lord,” he said, bowing to the king. “I fear I have been neglecting my duties.”

Thranduil walked up next to him. “The realm is in mourning, as you well know. There are no regular duties.” Legolas nodded wordlessly. “All the same, we cannot relax our vigilance. Eregdos wishes to send out war parties in search of orcs, and perhaps to find some sign of Gollum, for I doubt if he would willingly stay in Dol Guldur among the Nazgul.”

Swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat at the mere mention of Gollum or Dol Guldur, Legolas nodded, “I shall join them, Father.”

Both of them were silent as they walked back to the fortress, but Legolas felt his father’s hand rest lightly upon his shoulder. It seemed to lift the darkness further away from his heart, and prince and king smiled wordlessly at each other. After all, Legolas reasoned, Thranduil of all people knew that his realm could and had survived far worse trials than this. *My father has not kept us together all these years for naught. We shall live through this as well.*

***

About four months later…

“Legolas,” Eregdos came upon the elven warrior placing his newly-replenished pack upon his mount. “Whither are you departing now?”

The prince glanced at the other members of his party before replying, “We thought to try south towards Emyn Muil and Gondor. Perhaps some trace of Gollum might be found there.”

The warrior captain of Mirkwood shook his head. “It is unlikely Gollum would venture in that direction after all he suffered in Mordor. We’ve seen not a trace of him in months. It would be best to consider him lost and look to other things.”

Looking away, Legolas said softly, “The information he possesses is dangerous if he should fall into the wrong hands again, sir. Surely we cannot simply abandon the search.”

*You still have much to learn, young warrior. None could fail to know you as Langcyll’s protégé, for he also never knew when to have done.* Eregdos smiled. Legolas’s obsession with finding Gollum again was an ill habit often found among the younger warriors in the ranks; he could not rest without finding some way to rectify his failure. Still, summer had ended and autumn come upon them with naught to show for their efforts, and the captain knew their energies must now be directed elsewhere. Still…Legolas was partly right. Gollum and the whereabouts of the One Ring could not simply be dismissed, even if the chances of finding him were all but nonexistent.

Legolas and the other scouts were watching Eregdos curiously, and the warrior captain returned his thoughts to them. “We shall send word to Lord Elrond in Imladris. Mithrandir will have made him aware of the situation with Gollum, perhaps he will have counsel for how best to proceed. Yes, Legolas, you may be the messenger,” he added, anticipating the prince’s volunteering. Several of the other elves sniggered, and Legolas glared at them. Eregdos smiled, “It is as well; I must send a delegation to Rivendell in any case. You shall carry a message from the king concerning Gollum, and also lead the escort of my daughter to the House of Elrond.”

“Galithil?” Legolas asked. Behind him, Merilin giggled.

Eregdos mock-glared at her, and spoke with a crossness they all knew to be feigned. “Yes. It seems Glorfindel’s young upstart is determined to have her hand, and she is equally set on the son of Gwaeron. If all goes well, they shall wed in Rivendell next year.” Legolas and the other young warriors were grinning broadly, and Eregdos waved his hand irritably at them. “Be off with you. We shall depart at dawn in three days’ time.”

***

Three days later…

King Thranduil, Berensul, Eirien, and Silivren came out onto the palace steps to bid farewell to the party of travelers. Eregdos bowed to the elven king. “I have ordered Narbeleth to lead the warriors of Mirkwood in my absence.”

“I can find no fault with such an appointment,” Thranduil replied. Behind Eregdos stood his daughter Galithil, who was unlikely to return to Mirkwood. The elven king smiled and held out his hand to her. “You shall be greatly missed, daughter of Eregdos. My felicitations and blessing for a joyous union go with you.”

Blushing, Galithil bowed and kissed his hand. “I shall never forget your kindness to me and my family, my lord. I too shall miss all our kindred.” Several of the elves dashed tears from their eyes. Galithil was a promising young warrioress, possessing her father’s instinct for battle and strong heart, and she was much-loved among the Silvan elves. Her departure would be a loss to the elves of Mirkwood, while a great blessing to the elves of Imladris.

Legolas, watching the exchange with bright eyes, soon came to bow to the king. “Bear my message and the bride of Faron to Rivendell, my son,” said Thranduil. “And return safely to us.”

“My thanks, my lord,” Legolas replied. After exchanging farewells with Berensul and his family, Thranduil’s youngest son walked back toward his horse to depart.

*I may never see him again…*

The thought struck Thranduil like a wave of ice through his heart, and made him catch his breath. He knew not what had made him think such a thing, but the premonition stayed, clutching at his mind. Before he knew it-- “Legolas!”

His son glanced up, startled, as Thranduil swiftly came to his side among the horses. Legolas’s gray eyes were puzzled as the king laid an urgent hand upon his shoulder. “My son, take care. Come back to us.”

“I shall, Father,” answered Legolas, surprised by the anxiety in the king’s quiet words. He was surprised still more when his father silently embraced him, though he returned it with pleasure.

Thranduil stepped back again, noting gladly that the other elves were keeping themselves busy with the horses. “You have given me much cause for pride, Legolas.”

“Thank you.”

It made Thranduil’s lips quirk to see that his son was now quite confused, and at last he smiled. “Go now with my blessing.” With one last squeeze of Legolas’s shoulder, he returned to the palace steps, ignoring the obnoxious grin that his eldest son was currently giving him. “Farewell, warriors of Mirkwood! Come back to us safely!”

Legolas, being the king’s messenger on this journey, was at the head of the company, with Galithil and Eregdos just behind him. As they mounted and rode out toward the gate, Legolas suddenly looked back and waved. Thranduil raised his own hand in farewell with a full heart. *Come back to me, my son.*

***

In Lothlorien, at the same time…

The Lady Galadriel stood over her Mirror, watching things that are unfold in Middle Earth. She nodded quietly to herself as she beheld a party of horses departing the elven king’s city in Mirkwood, riding West for Rivendell. *The son of Thranduil’s destiny arrives. Thranduil himself has felt it, even without the power of a Ring.* She smiled. *Powerful and strange, is the love of a father for a son.* Her gaze fell upon the fair-haired elven warrior riding at the head of the company. *Ride swift, son of Mirkwood, and be true to your heart. For your heart is one of many things that shall soon be tested.*

She leaned back and watched the Mirror guide itself to display other happenings to her. It came into focus West of the Misty Mountains, upon a gray horse riding with fierce speed across the plains. *Asfaloth.*

Behind the gray steed, black-garbed riders gave chase upon black mounts. *The Nazgul. Our fate is upon us.*

With her will, she moved the focus of the mirror closer to the gray horse, spying the small, ailing figure upon its back, clutched in the grasp of a dark-haired elven maid as they raced toward the sanctuary of Rivendell. The elf was Arwen, daughter of Celebrian, granddaughter of Galadriel.

The Lady blinked, puzzlement sweeping over her features. Aloud, she murmured, “Something is not right.”

*****

 

(Giggle!) Forgive me, purists, I couldn't resist!  



	30. The Council of Elrond (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

“By the Valar, will you all have done?!” demanded Galithil, clapping her hands over the sides of her head.

The delegation of Mirkwood, bearing a message for the Lord of Imladris and a bride for a warrior of Imladris, had made camp for the night upon the plains. With the guards posted and fires lit, a large number of the company had now chosen to amuse themselves by dancing merrily around the center fire (and the bride-to-be) singing marriage songs gleefully.

Legolas, the messenger for his father, King Thranduil, sat by the fire near Galithil and laughed at the antics of his friends, while Galithil’s father, Eregdos, captain of the warriors of Mirkwood, mock-scowled in feigned displeasure at his daughter’s betrothal. Lady Merilin, another warrioress of Mirkwood, flopped down next to her kinswoman, laughing breathlessly, “As if you did not taunt me enough after my marriage, Cousin!”

“What are you talking of? I was abroad in Middle Earth at the time you and Cand were wed! We did not return until six months after the feast!” Galithil protested feebly as several of the other elves began tossing autumn flowers into her hair as though adorning her for a marriage banquet.

Snickering, Legolas put in, “True, but you must admit that we more than made up for it in the first days after we returned.”

“There!” Merilin and the others renewed their assault on Galithil’s dark hair over the warrior maid’s shrieks of protest until Eregdos bade them be silent lest they rouse every orc on the plains. Galithil grumbled that perhaps it might not be a bad idea.

***

Gimli, son of Glóin, heard the sound of the horses approaching in the darkness before he saw them. His father’s company was drawing nigh to the eastern entrance to Rivendell, and up until now, the road had been all but empty of travelers. The dwarves of Lonely Mountain were not quite within the protective circle of the Last Homely House, nor had they yet received the assurances of the Lord of Rivendell’s protection. So they circled immediately, axes brought to bear, against any foe who might be riding to bar their way.

To the east, the full moon was rising but still far from overhead, bathing the dark world in an almost-golden glow. Up the road, riding openly, came a party of elves, but not wearing the colors of Imladris. Three rode toward the front: one a wizened, fair-haired elven warrior, another a dark-haired elven maid, but the one in the lead caught Gimli’s attention the most. The reason most striking was that this elf, though leading the company, seemed the youngest. His dark gray eyes snapped with that rather disconcerting elvish alertness, that suggested he had seen Gimli long before Gimli had seen him, and had already had time to evaluate the dwarf as a potential threat or target. Almost as soon as their eyes met, the chins of both elf and dwarf lifted with mutual disdain, and not a word was spoken. The elves did slow their horses as they passed the dwarf walkers, but the young elf in the lead afforded Gimli and his father little more than a precursory nod in greeting.

Exchanging glances, the dwarves harrumphed. “Elves,” snorted Glóin. “They’re all the same.” Gimli laughed in agreement, and they continued on their way.

***

Aragorn was speaking softly to Arwen upon a veranda shortly after he and the rest of the hobbits had reached Rivendell when her eyes suddenly shifted past him, brightening with surprised pleasure. Turning to look, Aragorn smiled as well at the sight of Legolas coming up the steps toward them. “Well met, son of Thranduil!” he called happily.

“Aragorn. Undómiel.” Legolas bowed to each of them in turn.

Aragorn noted with concern the somber demeanor of the prince, but Arwen was speaking the required words of welcome on behalf of her father at the moment. “What brings you to Rivendell?” he asked when the chance came to speak.

“I--” Legolas broke off again as Arwen hastily excused herself all at once, a twinkle of sheepish mirth in her bright eyes.

Legolas and Aragorn stared at her swiftly-retreating form in confusion, hearing what sounded suspiciously close to a giggle in her wake, then were even more baffled when Glorfindel came just as swiftly up onto the veranda, giving the two of them hardly a nod in acknowledgement but striding after the Evenstar, perturbation on his fair elvish face. “Arwen! A word?”

Elf and Ranger turned back to each other, and each murmured simultaneously, “What was that all about?” Neither could provide any useful information, and the two were about to continue their conversation when Elladan arrived to inform them that Lord Elrond had called a council upon the porch for all the newly-arrived visitors to Rivendell.

Aragorn sighed, “I fear what tidings you bring must either wait or be disclosed in the council, my friend. I’ve much to acquaint you with as well, but time grows short.” Indeed, no sooner had he said this than a single clear bell rang out, the warning bell for the Council of Elrond.

***

Legolas attended the Council with Eregdos and Thorod, one of the guards. Such Councils were always interesting, it was said, and Legolas himself had only attended one other. Yet he could safely boast that this time he likely sat privy to one of the most interesting Councils Imladris had ever held.

There sat Glorfindel, still looking quite put-out over whatever little tiff he seemed to have with the Lady Arwen. Legolas would dearly love to know what that was about. Near Glorfindel sat two of the dwarves Legolas had seen on their way to Rivendell the night his own company had arrived, though what business dwarves had in Imladris now, he knew not (and cared less.) The elder of the two, a dwarf of important appearance, with a long, forked beard nearly as white as his garments, was in conversation with Glorfindel now, perfectly at ease. He was richly dressed, wearing a silver belt and a chain of silver and diamonds around his neck, and a heavy silver ring with a large black pearl upon his right hand. The younger had a beard of reddish color, but something in his features told Legolas that he was the elder dwarf’s son, or at least a close kinsman. He was clearly a stranger to Imladris, and gazed frequently about him as though expecting a foe to spring out from behind one of the seats (or perhaps from in one of them.)

Dismissing the dwarves, Legolas turned his attention to the more interesting characters. Mithrandir had arrived just then, accompanied by, to Legolas’s fascinated curiosity, two hobbits. The elder of the two greeted the dwarf as Glóin, with a familiarity that led Legolas to realize that this was none other than Bilbo Baggins, the same hobbit who had traveled through Rivendell and Mirkwood to the Lonely Mountain decades before. Amazing! Mortal or not, nearly eighty years had passed, and Mister Baggins had aged quite well for a mortal. Legolas knew the blood of Númenor ran in Aragorn’s veins, but it had not occurred to him that hobbits might live quite so well so long.

Elrond rose and drew the second hobbit to a seat by his side, and presented him to the company, saying, “Here, my friends, is the hobbit, Frodo son of Drogo. Few have ever come hither through greater peril or on an errand more urgent.”

Legolas contemplated the hobbit curiously. If he were any judge of hobbits’ age, this one was very young, and he wore a rather bewildered and apprehensive expression, as though he did not quite comprehend the events unfolding around him, and could not be certain exactly how he had become embroiled in them. At the moment they were hearing the speech of another man in their midst, a richly-dressed man of Gondor, Boromir the son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. When he had spoken of the struggles in Ithilien to hold back the Enemy’s forces, Aragorn rose and cast a sword upon the table before Elrond, its blade broken. Legolas and the others stared.

“Here is the Sword that was broken!” said Aragorn.

Legolas bristled at the condescending look the Steward’s son bestowed upon Aragorn. It seemed he would speak some equally patronizing words, had not Frodo the hobbit cried out, “Then it belongs to you and not to me at all!” and sprang to his feet. The son of Thranduil was now puzzled. Had the hobbit brought the shards of Narsil to Rivendell? Of what did he speak--

“Bring out the Ring, Frodo!” said Gandalf solemnly. “The time has come. Hold it up, and then Boromir will understand the remainder of his riddle.”

The Ring…The Ring…Legolas felt as though an icy hand has squeezed his heart, and felt Eregdos and Thorod tense beside him. The young hobbit seemed no less at ease, and in his trembling hand, he slowly held up a small, golden ring, gleaming and flickering with his slight movement. “Behold Isildur’s Bane,” said Elrond. Frodo’s eyes seemed somehow ashamed, both fearful of and loathing the thing in his grasp, and he placed it upon the table, backing away from it. Strange, thought Legolas, that after all the Ring had done to corrupt Gollum, this hobbit had borne the Ring all the way from…wherever he had been, the Shire perhaps…and showed no sign of having been seduced by it.

A debate broke out almost at once between Aragorn and Boromir over the premonitions many were suffering concerning the doom and great deeds at hand, punctuated by a few well-chosen words from Bilbo. “The words were not the doom of Minas Tirith,” Aragorn had said of Boromir’s dreams, “but doom and great deeds indeed at hand.”

But still, Boromir seemed to doubt, and more irritatingly, still he patronized Aragorn. “And who are you, and what has a mere Ranger to do with Minas Tirith?”

Legolas forgot himself. “This is no mere Ranger,” he snapped, rising. “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur, Elendil’s son of Minas Ithil. You owe him your allegiance.”

Elrond shot Legolas a quelling look, for it was not his place to make such a thing known, but Legolas was losing patience with the man of Gondor’s dismissal of his friend, who was in fact of higher birth than the Steward’s son or arguably even Legolas himself, the elf admitted. At least it brought Boromir up sharp. As the man turned to stare in astonishment at Aragorn, the heir of Isildur muttered, “Sit down, Legolas,” in the grey tongue. Legolas did so, but noted with amusement the approving look he received from Bilbo. Could it be that the elder hobbit had known who the Ranger was?

Aragorn spoke to Boromir, “For my part I forgive your doubt. Little do I resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stand carven in their majesty in the halls of Denethor. I am but the heir of Isildur, not Isildur himself. I have had a hard life.” And he recounted much of his existence as a Ranger to the assembled, and much of what he said troubled them all. Then it was old Bilbo’s turn, and he told them at last of his discovery of the Ring, and how he had come to take it from Gollum. Some of the others had clearly had the tale before, but to Legolas it was wholly new, and he listened with amazement, while the old hobbit, actually not at all displeased, recounted his adventure with Gollum at full length.

Then, less willingly than Bilbo, Frodo told of all his dealings with the Ring since the day that it had passed into his keeping. No sooner had he sat down than Bilbo gave him a mild critique of his storytelling--and chided the rest of the company for not making a properly respectful audience by constantly interrupting with questions. Legolas quashed a grin; he rather liked the elder hobbit.

Then it was Gandalf’s turn to speak, and his account was even more troubling. He spoke of the White Saruman’s treachery, saying, “In all the long wars with the Dark Tower treason has ever been our greatest foe.” He told them of his explorations with Aragorn in search of the One Ring, and his own investigation into the annals of Minas Tirith for records of Isildur’s finding of the Ring. Not until Aragorn spoke of his search and capture of Gollum did Legolas hear anything that he had already known, and the feeling of helpless confusion amid this great storm of events at last began to recede. At least from Aragorn’s part, Legolas had not been but a mere bystander but had had some ability to make a stand in the dreadful times that were coming upon them--or at least he had for a time until he had allowed Gollum to get away. Legolas felt a renewed sense of shame and despair, realizing now, only too well, what the consequences of his own incompetence might be.

He was brought out of his bitter reverie by a sense of incredible terror at Gandalf’s next words:

“Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatuluk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul!”

The change in the wizard’s voice was astonishing. Suddenly it became menacing, powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow seemed to pass over the high sun, and the porch for a moment grew dark. All trembled, and many of the elves stopped their ears. Legolas felt that he had no such ability, though he longed for it, but the dreadful sound seemed to half-paralyze him, and though he went rigid in his seat and squeezed his eyes shut amid a wave of sheer nausea, he could not block out the Maia’s speech.

“Never before has any voice dared to utter words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey,” said Elrond, sounding distinctly tense as the shadow passed and the company breathed once more.

“And let us hope that none will ever speak it here again,” answered Gandalf. “Nonetheless I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond. For if that tongue is not soon to be heard in ever corner of the West, then let all put doubt aside that this thing is indeed what the Wise have declared: the treasure of the Enemy, fraught with all his malice; and in it lies a great part of his strength of old. Out of the Black Years come the words that the Smiths of Eregion heard, and knew that they had been betrayed:

One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all, and in the Darkness bind them!”

Gandalf paused, looking with narrowed eyes at each of them in turn, as if to make sure that they grasped the significance of the words. Then he went on. “Know also, my friends, that I learned more yet from Gollum. He was loath to speak and his tale was unclear, but it is beyond all doubt that he went to Mordor, and there all that he knew was forced from him. The Enemy knows that the One is found, that it was long in the Shire, and since his servants have pursued it almost to our door, he soon will know, already he may know, even as I speak, that we have it here.”

All sat silent for a while, until at length Boromir spoke, “He is but a small thing, you say, this Gollum? Small but great in mischief. What became of him? To what doom did you put him?”

Legolas cringed mentally; he knew the time was fast approaching when he must confess his shameful failure to all here, but before he could speak up, Aragorn answered. “He is in prison, but no worse. He had suffered much. There is no doubt that he was tormented, and the fear of Sauron lies black on his heart. Still, I for one am glad that he is safely kept by the watchful Elves of Mirkwood. His malice is great and gives him a strength hardly to be believed in one so lean and withered. He could work much mischief still, if he were free. And I do not doubt that he was allowed to leave Mordor on some evil errand.”

Legolas could keep silent no longer. “Alas, alas!” he burst out in great distress, the weight of his guilt falling more heavily than even when he had carried home the bodies of the two young novices. “The tidings that I was sent to bring must now be told. They are not good, but only here have I learned how evil they may seem to this company. Sméagol, who is now called Gollum, has escaped.”

“Escaped?” cried Aragorn. “That is ill news indeed. We shall all rue it bitterly, I fear. How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?”

Had Legolas not already been so racked with blame, his friend’s words would have stung. He sighed, “Not through lack of watchfulness, but perhaps through over-kindliness.” *Far more than that wretched creature deserved, as we found out too late!* “And we fear that the prisoner had aid from others, and that more is known of our doings than we could wish. We guarded this creature day and night, at Gandalf’s bidding, much though we wearied of this task.” His heart twisted, thinking of Sornhén and the rope. “But Gandalf bade us hope still for his cure, and we had not the heart to keep him ever in dungeons under the earth, where he would fall back into his own black thoughts--”

“You were less tender to me.”

Legolas broke off at the gruff muttered comment, and turned to see the flashing eyes of Glóin, watching Legolas as if he himself were responsible for the dwarf’s imprisonment in the deep places in Thranduil’s halls. *I grow very, very weary of ever being blamed for events that took place at a time when I was not even present in Mirkwood.* He was grieved still for the failure that had brought him here, and the deaths that Mirkwood still mourned, and found himself with little patience for the old dwarf’s carping. But before he could release a stinging retort, Gandalf intervened. “Now come! Pray do not interrupt, my good Glóin. That was a regrettable misunderstanding, long set right.”

*Since when?* thought Legolas sarcastically, remembering the near-death of Faron beneath the ground at the hands of those dwarves’ vindictive grudges. By the look he shot the elf, Glóin harbored similar thoughts. But Gandalf went on, “If all the grievances that stand between elves and dwarves are to be brought up here, we may as well abandon this council.”

After a brief moment of mutual scowling between them, Glóin rose and bowed to the company, and Legolas shook off his irritation and continued. “In the days of fair weather we led Gollum through the woods, and there was a high tree standing alone far from the others that he liked to climb. Often we let him mount up to the highest branches, until he felt the free wind, but we set a guard at the tree’s foot. One day,” his throat closed suddenly, and he swallowed hard. Aragorn’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. Thankfully, the others seemed not to notice, for few outside his kindred could read his face as the Ranger could. “One day he refused to come down…and the guards had no mind to climb after him: he had learnt the trick of clinging to boughs with his feet as well as his hands; so they sat by the tree far into the night.”

*I left them. A Elbereth, I left them!*

“It was that very night of summer, yet moonless and starless, that orcs came upon us unawares. We drove them off after some time; they were many and fierce, but they came from over the mountains, and were unused to the woods. When the battle was over, we found that Gollum was gone, and his guards were, were slain or taken.” Aragorn’s breath caught at those words, and the faint ire in his eyes that had led Legolas to avoid his gaze vanished, replaced by distress and alarm. “It then seemed plain to us that the attack had been made for his rescue, and that he knew of it beforehand. How that was contrived we cannot guess, but Gollum is cunning, and the spies of the Enemy are many. The dark things that were driven out in the year of the Dragon’s fall have returned in greater numbers, and Mirkwood is again an evil place, save where our realm is maintained.”

All blame or fault in Aragorn’s face had vanished, and now he watched Legolas with soft sorrow in his eyes, a look that tore at the elf even more than the man’s anger would have. It took all Legolas’s will not to look down. But through some deep reserve of strength, both his eyes and his voice remained steady before the company. “We have failed to recapture Gollum. We came on his trail among those of many orcs, and it plunged deep into the Forest, going south. But ere long it escaped our skill, and we dared not continue the hunt, for we were drawing nigh to Dol Guldur, and that is still a very evil place; we do not go that way.” *And we had a dead child to return to her mother.* The thought slipped out before Legolas could repress it, and he swallowed hard.

Gandalf spoke up, mercifully pulling the gazes of the council from Legolas. “Well, well, he is gone. We have no time to seek for him again. He must do what he will. But he may play a part yet that neither he nor Sauron have foreseen.” Then the Maia spoke at length of the treachery of Saruman, in great detail, while the company listened with increasing dread. It seemed that many among them had expected the great Istar to be a natural ally, both of Gandalf and of them. But with Saruman having betrayed them…what chance had they?

“If the Ring cannot be kept from him for ever by strength,” said Glorfindel, “two things only remain for us to attempt: to send it over the Sea, or to destroy it.”

“But Gandalf has revealed to us that we cannot destroyed it by any craft that we here possess,” said Elrond. “And they who dwell beyond the Sea,” Legolas thought in a rush of horror of his elder brother Belhador, of Langcyll and his sons, and all the elves who had sought refuge from evil over the sea, “they would not receive it. For good or ill it belongs to Middle Earth. It is for us who still dwell here to deal with it.” Legolas was not the only elf in the company who sighed softly.

“Then,” said Glorfindel, “let us cast it into the deeps, and so make the lies of Saruman come true. For it is clear now that even at the Council his feet were already on a crooked path. He knew that the Ring was not lost for ever, but wished us to think so, for he began to lust for it himself. Yet oft in lies truth is hidden; in the sea it would be safe.”

“Not safe for ever,” said Gandalf. “There are many things in the deep waters, and seas and lands may change. And it is not our part here to take thought only for a season, or for a few lives of men, or for a passing age of the world. We should seek a final end to this menace, even if we do not hope to make one.”

“And this we shall not find on the roads to the sea,” said Galdor of the Grey Havens, and Legolas felt an inkling of alarm, as they talked on about Sauron’s belief that the Ring would be taken west. But all seemed to counsel against following that path, for Sauron would likely predict it. The prince had to admit this was true, from what little information he had heard, and yet…the only option left…

“The westward road seems easiest,” Elrond was saying. “Therefore it must be shunned. It will be watched. Too often the elves have fled that way. Now at this last we must take a hard road, a road unforeseen.”

*Oh, by the Valar, Lord Elrond surely does not mean to…*

He did. “There lies our hope, if hope it be. To walk into peril…into Mordor.” Legolas did not even realize his breath had quickened, and his heart beat ever faster. “We must send the Ring into the Fire.”

Silence fell again. All seemed to feel a dead darkness in their hearts. At last, Boromir stirred, catching the eyes of the others, for he was fingering his great horn and frowning. At length, he spoke. “I do not understand all this. Saruman is a traitor, but did he not have a glimpse of wisdom? Why do you speak ever of hiding and destroying? Why should we not think that the Great Ring has come into our hands to serve us in the very hour of need? Wielding it the Free Lords of the Free may surely defeat the Enemy. That is what he most fears, I deem. The men of Gondor are valiant, and they will never submit, but they may be beaten down. Valour needs first strength, and then a weapon. Let the Ring be your weapon, if it has such power as you say. Take it and go forth to victory!”

*Ai! Has this man heard nothing Lord Elrond has said, or has he already fallen under the spell of the Ring? If it may act this fast, then surely we are all doomed, for no man or elf, however valiant, would survive a trip into Mordor so close to its evil,* thought Legolas, but Elrond spoke up first.

“Alas, no,” he said, to Legolas’s relief. “We cannot use the Ruling Ring. That we now know to well. It belongs to Sauron and was made by him alone, and is altogether evil. Its strength, Boromir, is too great for anyone to wield at will, save only those who have already a great power of their own. But for them it holds an even deadlier peril. The very desire of it corrupts the heart. Consider Saruman. If any of the Wise should with this Ring overthrow the Lord of Mordor, using his own arts, he would then set himself on Sauron’s throne, and yet another Dark Lord would appear. And that is another reason why the Ring should be destroyed: as long as it is in the world it will be a danger even to the Wise. For nothing is evil in the beginning. Even Sauron was not so. I fear to take the Ring to hide it. I will not take the Ring to wield it.”

“Nor I,” said Gandalf.

Boromir bowed his head. “So be it.”

Long they talked of the Ruling Ring, and the powers of the other races of Middle Earth--or rather, how not a one had any object of power that could stand against the One, should it fall back into Sauron’s hands. “Ah, alas!” cried Glóin. “When will the day come of our revenge? But still there are the Three? What of the Three Rings of the Elves? Very mighty Rings, it is said. Do not the Elf lords keep them? Yet they too were made by the Dark Lord long ago. Are they idle? I see Elf Lords here. Will they not say?”

It rankled Legolas slightly to realize that it had not occurred to him to wonder about the Elven Rings. He looked around, at Elrond seated at the head of the Council, at Elladan and Elrohir beside him, and Glorfindel and Lindir, at Eregdos at his side. It was said that Gil-Galad had carried one, but he had fallen at Orodruin. Who did possess the Three now, the young elf wondered. Glorfindel, perhaps? Or Elrond? Celeborn and Galadriel? Legolas suspected he would know if his father had ever possessed one. He looked around the company again. The elven lords returned no answer to Glóin’s question.

“Did you not hear me, Glóin?” said Elrond. “The Three were not made by Sauron, nor did he ever touch them.”

“But what then would happen, if the Ruling Ring were destroyed, as you counsel?” asked Glóin.

“We know not for certain,” answered Elrond sadly. “Some hope that the Three Rings, which Sauron has never touched, would then become free, and their rulers might heal the hurts of the world that he has wrought. But maybe when the One has gone, the Three will fail, and many fair things will fade and be forgotten. That is my belief.”

Legolas felt a pang at Elrond’s words. The Lord of Imladris was seldom wrong, and now he spoke as one who knew something more than the others. Legolas looked hard at the elven lord, noting his hands hidden within the folds of his robe. And the son of Thranduil felt a very strong suspicion that were Elrond’s hands to be seen, one of the Three would adorn the half-elf’s finger.

“Yet all the elves are willing to endure this chance,” said Glorfindel, “if by it the power of Sauron may be broken, and the fear of his dominion be taken away forever.”

Even if it meant an end to the power of the Three, the last source of protection for the Eldar, Legolas thought. And if the fair lands of the elves were not protected by the Rings, as Elrond had suggested, what would become of their realms? Then again, Mirkwood had no elven ring, and the lands remained fair, if wrought with danger always close at hand. Would that be the fate of Lórien and Imladris if the Three were shorn of their power? The idea frightened Legolas. There were so few elven havens left in Middle Earth. What would become of them in this war that all seemed to fear was brewing, whether that war be won or lost? What would become of his people?

Elrond was speaking again; Legolas snapped back to the present. “At least for a while, the road must be trod, but it will be very hard. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere.”

“Very well, very well, Master Elrond!” said Bilbo suddenly. “Say no more! It is plain enough what you are pointing at. Bilbo the silly hobbit started this affair, and Bilbo had better finish it, or himself.”

As the hobbit rambled on, Legolas felt his lips quirking, and some of the dark mood over the Council lightened as any number of the company quashed smiles. Was this self-proclaimed “silly”--not to mention old--hobbit actually volunteering to take the Ring into Mordor? Yet he seemed perfectly sincere, and Legolas felt a flicker of amused admiration for the little aged creature who so matter-of-factly offered to take up a quest that would undoubtedly claim his life.

Laughter died on the lips of Boromir, and his expression became gravely respectful as he too realized that the old hobbit was quite serious. Only Glóin smiled openly, but his smile seemed rather reminiscent, and Legolas recalled that the dwarf had seen the hobbit in his youth. Perhaps such a proposal was to be considered, if only the hobbit were younger. After all, possessing little power or thirst for power of their own, (at least that was what was said) perhaps a hobbit would be better suited to carry the Ring than a man or even an elf. It bore consideration.

But Gandalf laughed then. “Of course, my dear Bilbo. If you had really started this affair, you might be expected to finish it. But you know well enough now that starting is too great a claim for any, and that only a small part is played in great deeds by any hero. You need not bow. Though the word was meant, and we do not doubt that under jest you are making a valiant offer.” *To say the least!* thought Legolas admiringly. “But one beyond your strength, Bilbo,” Gandalf went on. “You cannot take this thing back. It has passed on. If you need my advice any longer, I should say that your part is ended, unless as a recorder. Finish your book, and leave the ending unaltered. There is still hope for it. But get ready to write a sequel, when they come back.”

Bilbo laughed, and the mood of all the company seemed to lighten a little. “I have never known you to give me pleasant advice before,” he said. Legolas was not the only one in that circle of men, elves, dwarves, and hobbits who stifled a snigger. Gandalf shot them all a rather jesting scowl, but Bilbo’s remark that followed caused more barks of laughter to escape the group. “As all your unpleasant advice has been good, I wonder if this advice is not bad. Still, I don’t suppose I have the strength or luck left to deal with the Ring. It has grown, and I have not. But tell me: what do you mean by ‘they?’”

“The messengers who are sent with the Ring,” said Elrond. *Someone decidedly suicidal,* thought Legolas, and caught a look from Boromir that suggested the man held a similar view of the as-yet-to-be-named messengers.

“Exactly!” declared Bilbo with all seriousness. “And who are they to be? That seems to me what this Council has to decide, and all that it has to decide. Elves may thrive on speech alone--” *We do not!* thought Legolas indignantly, “--and dwarves endure great weariness; but I am only an old hobbit, and I miss my meal at noon. Can’t you think of some names now? Or put it off till after dinner?”

Legolas stared at his knees, consumed by rather brooding thoughts. What elf or man could possibly be good enough, wise enough, strong enough to bear the Ring all the way to Mordor while resisting its pull? Aragorn, perhaps? *And yet it claimed Isildur. Still, Aragorn is not Isildur. What of Mithrandir? Or Glorfindel or Lord Elrond?*

The noon bell rang. Still no one spoke. He stole a quick glance around the Council, all of whom seemed to have their eyes downcast, deep in thought. Suddenly, and rather disconcertingly, his eyes met the eyes of Frodo Baggins, the younger hobbit. They blinked at each other and looked at the rest of the Council again. Legolas eyed the elven lords, the wizard, and Aragorn. Would they not speak? At the very least, if messengers were to be chosen, they were the ones to do the choosing--

“I will take it!”

Legolas jumped. So did several of the others. Everyone stared at the small, young hobbit who had spoken, feeling a collective sense of complete shock. None looked more shocked than Frodo himself. The hobbit swallowed hard. “I will take the Ring,” he said in a soft, but astonishingly steady and firm voice. “Though I do not know the way.”

Only Elrond had not looked up. Now he raised his eyes to meet Frodo’s, and Legolas felt his heart lurch at seeing the sudden keenness of the glance. Elrond spoke. “If I understand aright all that I have heard, I think that this task is appointed for you, Frodo; and that if you do not find a way, no one will. This is the hour of the Shire-folk, when they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and counsels of the Great. Who of all the Wise could have foreseen it? Or, if they are wise, why should they expect to know it, until the hour has struck?”

Legolas listened, silent and thoughtful, though for some strange reason his heart was racing in his chest. Not with fear, but with anticipation, the adrenaline surging as it had not since he had taken his place to begin the Great Gathering Trial. *Indeed, something great is about to happen here. Yet all is ready; I can feel it. How very strange. Lord Elrond must be right. Hobbits are not renowned for their strength, nor their wisdom, nor their courage, and yet…perhaps that is the point.*

“But it is a heavy burden,” said Lord Elrond to Frodo. “So heavy that none could lay it on another. I do not lay it on you. But if you take it freely, I will say that your choice is right; and though all the mighty elf-friends of old, Hador and Hurin, and Turin, and Beren himself were assembled together, your seat should be among them.”

“Here!” barked a new voice suddenly, and all the assembled blinked and looked around, as a third hobbit sprang up from where he had quietly been sitting on the ledge just behind the plants that lined the porch. “But you won’t send him off alone, surely, Master?” cried the new hobbit, who looked to be younger than Frodo. Jumping up around the corner, he scurried to Frodo’s side, and glanced rather sheepishly around at the august company before folding his arms firmly. “Mr. Frodo’s not goin’ anywhere without me!”

Lord Elrond eyed the newcomer for a moment, then smiled slightly, “No indeed, it is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not.”

“Oy! We’re coming too!”

*And two more hobbits! Will wonders never cease?* Indeed they were a wonder, scampering on those huge, wooly feet of theirs to flank Frodo’s left side. Lord Elrond had been dryly amused by the first eavesdropper’s sudden appearance, but now he looked quite disgruntled. It was an expression Legolas had never seen on the Lord of Imladris, and he suddenly found himself desperately stifling a laugh. Few beings in Middle Earth could boast the ability to throw off Lord Elrond, but as he stared at the two newest intruders, he could not seem to think of a thing to say. Legolas bit his lip, but a snigger still escaped. Fortunately, even as Elrond looked about to turn his scowl onto Legolas, Elrohir snickered behind him, and the elven lord was successfully distracted into glaring at his son instead.

Gandalf rose. “We shall consider it, my dear Peregrin and Meriadoc, we shall consider it. Frodo shall not be lacking in companions, that I can promise you. Let us adjourn for the time being, Lord Elrond, and discuss who is best suited to accompany Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee on their quest.”

Samwise shook his head, blushing, and muttered, “A nice pickle we have landed ourselves in, Mr. Frodo!”

*****


	31. The Council of Elrond (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

No sooner had the Council adjourned than Aragorn rushed to Legolas’s side. The elf looked away, knowing what the man’s urgency was about. “Legolas? Forgive me…I did not realize…”

Legolas cringed inwardly and shook his head to ward off further contrition, “It is I who should be apologizing, Aragorn. I failed you when you needed my service most--”

“--I speak not of Gollum any longer, Legolas, but of concern for your folk. I remembered when your father first received him, you Lady niece…was she…” he watched his friend’s face anxiously.

Legolas shook his head hastily. “Nay. She lives. But she was injured when we first attempted to pull Gollum from the tree. I took her home, and left the other two novices…” he found he could not continue and looked away again, cursing his own weakness. Laughing bitterly, he murmured, “I certainly proved my worth as a commander, or lack thereof.”

A hand rested upon his shoulder. “I would not have you speak so, my friend, you know that. And Gollum is only--”

“Aragorn!” Legolas shot him a sharp look. “Don’t. I know full well what my failure may have cost us all, and the quest you’ve yet to begin. Allow me at least the honesty of the truth, rather than attempting to make light of a heavy price for my incompetence.”

The hand gripped his arm tighter and Aragorn chuckled humorlessly. “Then I shall speak no more on the subject, for you carry enough guilt for ten Gollums. Be easy now, Legolas, for it is true at least as Gandalf said; he is gone, and we cannot be troubled to search for him now. Let it go. There is much to be done; I am to depart with the scouts for the Rangers with Elladan and Elrohir this evening. Lord Elrond speaks of asking Thranduil’s folk for aid as well.”

Legolas shook himself free of black thoughts and nodded. “I shall be happy to deliver a message for him. My father will gladly aid in any quest to rid the world of the One Ring, though…” he stifled a slightly hysterical laugh, “you will forgive me if I neglect to mention that it shall be borne from here to Mordor by a hobbit!”

Aragorn blinked at him, then gazed at nothing as though returning his mind to all he knew of Thranduil. His brow furrowed thoughtfully for a moment, and then…with a great, long snort, the heir of Isildur burst into a roar of laughter, joined immediately by Legolas. “Oh, Valar, I can only imagine his face!” gasped the elf, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Do you suppose he would even believe it?”

“‘I always said that Elrond was slightly mad!’” mimicked Legolas, dropping his voice into Thranduil’s deeper timbre. That set Aragorn howling again, and so they carried on for several minutes until the sounds of another approaching made them shush each other hastily.

It was Lord Elrond and Glorfindel, walking on the terrace just above them. “I think I am not the one to go,” Glorfindel was saying.

“You would be a wise counsel to them, my friend,” mused Elrond, his voice thoughtful. “And your strength would be an asset. You possess great power.”

“And wonder already if that might be my downfall,” Glorfindel’s deeply troubled voice startled both inadvertent eavesdroppers. “Lord Elrond…even as Frodo Baggins entered Rivendell…I felt it, and feel it still. And it…it seems to…nay, my lord. For counsel they shall have Mithrandir, and there are many others with strength who might be of greater service than I. I fear power must yet lead to a greater temptation, and would be foolhardy indeed to suppose that an elf is immune. I am not to go.”

Lord Elrond sighed. To the greater surprise of Legolas and Aragorn, the Lord of Imladris did not argue overmuch. “Nay, as you will. I think…something tells me…I shall find one among the elves who shall possess the strength and wisdom to join this quest and represent all our people…yet he shall not be one of past great deeds. Nor shall he be one who seeks power. Nay, a powerful elven lord would not be an asset to this quest. I must search elsewhere for one who shall stand for all the Eldar in the darkest of all hours.”

“You are right, my lord, and I suspect you knew I was not to go even when you asked,” there was mirth again in Glorfindel’s voice. “Besides, I could not go even if I wish, for I know not when my horse will vanish again!”

“Really, Glorfindel, you make too much of it,” now Elrond was laughing. “She was a great service to Asfaloth once--”

“And ever I shall be grateful to her, for with that injury I feared he might have been permanently lame. Yet that does not mean she can go scampering off with him any time she chooses!”

“Well…she did become rather attached to him…”

“You told ME to go and meet Aragorn and the hobbits--”

“I said Asfaloth might aid them. It was not my fault she overheard, and took it to mean that any rider would do. After all, Asfaloth does not seem to mind--”

“Fah! That horse is as enamored with her as she is with him. Your daughter makes a spectacle of herself wherever she goes!”

“Of that I am all too aware.”

Their voices at last trailed off to where it was safe for Aragorn and Legolas to talk again. Looking incredulous, Legolas demanded, “THAT is what he has been out of sorts over? She stole his HORSE?!”

Aragorn looked equally baffled, then began to laugh, “I had wondered what she was doing wandering about the wild on Asfaloth. She said she was looking for us, but how she knew we were near I had not the chance to find out!”

“Does not Arwen have a horse of her own?” demanded the elf, stifling his own laughter.

Aragorn broke off and shook his head sadly. “Nay, he died last year. For a time, she did not ride at all, but then Asfaloth caught his foot in a hunter’s trap and we feared he was lost,” Legolas sucked in his breath in dismay, “but she was able to treat the infection, and now he rides as fast as ever.” Aragorn shook his head and laughed again. “It must be as Elrond said, that she grew attached to him.”

“Poor Glorfindel. Were I Asfaloth, I might favor Arwen too,” laughed Legolas, missing the startled look Aragorn gave him.

The Ranger’s next words silenced the elf’s mirth. “That is a fine mount you ride now.”

Legolas sobered and looked away, “She is.”

Aragorn smiled, all too aware of what the prince was thinking. “Still not Lanthir, though.”

“Never like Lanthir. There was no such horse in all the world.”

***

The company of Mirkwood had nearly two months in the House of Elrond, when they were not joining the scouts searching for news of the Enemy. Legolas left with them twice, and each time returned empty-handed, but not especially encouraged by the lack of news. To him, that merely meant that the Dark Lord and his servants were hiding their secrets well. There was also dearth of news of Gollum. There was no trace of the Enemy seen by any of the other scouting parties either.

Legolas and his company were to remain in Rivendell for at least another ten months, for Faron and Galithil were to be wed the following autumn, and Legolas hoped to be there with them. Of course, it was expected that Galithil’s father would stay, so by mutual consent, the company of Mirkwood accepted Lord Elrond’s hospitality for three seasons. Legolas was more than willing to spend an extended period of time in Imladris, though he was greatly disappointed to learn that Aragorn would likely be leaving with Frodo Baggins on the quest of the Ring, with the rest of the companions. Still, it did not terribly surprise him.

*Aragorn has a destiny to fulfill. I have known that from the beginning. Whether he wishes it or not,* the elf smiled to himself, *I fear it is the times that have chosen who will rise to greatness. And Aragorn was born to it.*

The son of Thranduil was wandering alone on one of the terraces, lost in thought, when he heard someone else approaching who was definitely neither man nor elf. Nor a hobbit, Legolas realized, for although they had very large feet, even they did not stomp so. From one of the outer rooms of the Last Homely House swaggered the two dwarves, Glóin and his son…whatever his name was. Both stopped and drew themselves up when they saw Legolas.

“What do you do here, Master Elf?” grunted the younger. “Lying in wait for someone?”

Legolas narrowed his eyes, determined not to let this blustery, stunted creature drive him to distraction. It was not even worth the irritation. “As I am an elf, a messenger of another realm to this House, and a guest permitted to wander free in these lands, I think I should find no need to lie in wait for anything, Master Dwarf,” he said coolly. “And if a child of Aule may ask such a thing of an elf in the House of his kindred, then I would ask you what you do here?”

The dwarf puffed his chest out, making his beard look even bigger. Legolas would have liked to laugh scornfully, so unthreatening did he look. “Lord Elrond has asked me to join the Ringbearer on his quest.”

All scorn and laughter aside, it was all Legolas could do not to gape. “What?!” A DWARF accompanying the One Ring? Was Elrond MAD?!

Glóin puffed out his chest in turn. “It is so, Master Elf,” he said smugly. “As his father accompanied the elder Baggins on a grand quest against a dragon’s wrath, so Gimli Glóin’s son shall face the wrath of Mordor and the Enemy with the younger Baggins. A most fitting legacy, you will agree!”

Legolas pursed his lips into a thin line. “Quite,” he ground out, disgusted at their posturing. “If you will excuse me, then.” Moving smoothly past them, he added to their backs, “Though I would caution you to soften your steps. With such racket, the guards might think orcs had invaded.”

The dwarf Gimli sounded about to retort, but Legolas kept walking, grinning to himself, as Glóin grunted in annoyance and pulled his son away. Whatever elf wound up unlucky enough to join the quest and spent Valar-knew-how-long in the company of that creature, Legolas hoped he would grant Glóin’s son plenty of consternation before the quest was done. *Compared to hobbits, they may be useful fighters, but among elves and Aragorn, he shall find little worth and even less fame.*

The sun was setting, and so Legolas did the same thing he had come into the habit of doing every night. He climbed the stairs to the roof of the highest room in Rivendell, and quietly made his way out onto a smooth ledge, settling upon the boards to stare up at the clear sky, and the stars. The canyon was wide enough that he could see stars for leagues without the obstruction of the trees, something he could seldom do at home in Mirkwood. Thranduil’s halls had become so crowded lately, it was difficult to get out alone. Smiling contentedly up at the stars against the black sky, Legolas softly began to sing.

***

Glóin would not permit his son to pursue an argument with that Mirkwood elf, or else Gimli would surely have had some choice words for Thranduil’s son. But Glóin pulled him away before he could deliver a scathing retort to the “orc” comment. All in all, Gimli had been pleasantly surprised by the hospitality of the Rivendell elves, though from what his father had said of them, he should not have been. Still, Gimli had heard much of the elves since his father’s visit to the Last Homely House, and little of it made him look at the Eldar race with a friendly eye.

“Come, Gimli, it is not worth brawling over.” Glóin firmly hauled him back to their rooms. “We are guests here, and so is he.”

“And that excuses that upstart elfling from insulting us?” grumbled Gimli, but he did as his father bid.

“You need not bother with the likes of him,” said Glóin with a grin. “You are a companion of the Ringbearer now, my boy, and proud I am to say it! Thranduil’s pampered little brat shall have to content himself with shooting errant trolls to help with the effort against the Dark Lord, while my son shall see his name legend among Dwarves, Eldar, and men alike!”

Gimli grinned back, “And glad I am to hear you say it!”

Glóin put a serious hand upon his shoulder. “Know this, Gimli. Lord Elrond exaggerated not of the burdens you shall face. But I know well why he chose you, and one of our people, to be a part of this quest. The Lord of Imladris is wise--do not laugh, Gimli, it is true--and I place much faith in him. He was a good one to us when we last came through the Misty Mountains. He is fair, choosing folk from each free race to accompany the Ringbearer. He chose you for your many good parts, and forget them not on this quest. You have your loyalty. Carry it well in the service of young Baggins; he’ll need you, Gimli, mark my words. He’ll need protecting more than anyone else, so keep your axe ready. And, much as you’re tempted, don’t use your axe on whatever elf Elrond picks.” They both guffawed. “Elves are terribly trying at times, but when it comes to it, we’re all enemies of the same Enemy, so keep your axe aimed in the right direction. Stand well for our people.”

“I shall, Father. You have my word.”

“And you have my faith.” Glóin squeezed his son’s shoulders. “Here,” he reached to his left hand, and removed the heavy silver ring that sat there, adorned with a single, lustrous black pearl.

Gimli’s eyes widened; he knew that pearl had been a gift from Dáin himself in gratitude for Glóin’s own loyalty to the King Under the Mountain. Glóin had labored for months fashioning the mithril ring on which to mount it in proper homage to his King. When his father held it up and beckoned, Gimli rather sheepishly extended his own hand, and allowed the ornament to be laid upon his own finger. “Remember who you are, my son. Remember who you represent. Your strength and the strength of our people will be your greatest virtues, and you will bring great fame to all of us on this quest. Of that I have no doubt.”

“Thank you, Father. I shall prove myself worth of such a great honor.” Gimli clasped his hand, and the silver ring, to his heart, and the black pearl gleamed upon it, its dark luster speaking of many oaths, past and future, that would all be proven on the coming quest.

***

Lord Elrond leaned against the railing of an upper balcony, staring into the silver mist of the waterfalls in the darkness. As he had many times these two past months, with each passing report from the scouts, he was counting in his head. *Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, Mithrandir, Aragorn and Boromir at least for a time, and now Gimli son of Glóin…there remain three more to be found, and I promised to give some word to the hobbits tomorrow. Of my household I may find several who seem good to send, and yet…one in particular must represent the Eldar.*

It was as he had feared: a powerful elven lord of the Elder Days would not avail the Ringbearer. Nay, it was other qualities of the Eldar that must be represented in this quest. But who? Darkness had touched even the younger of the immortal race, but it was the light of the elves--and light that came with neither power nor ambition--that must be found. Who to send…

Elrond mulled silently, running countless names through his head. All at once, the soft sound of singing seemed to drift through a lull in the noise of the waterfalls, and the Lord of Imladris looked up.

There, just visible upon one of the highest roofs, rested young Legolas, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood, as motionless as a statue, yet as relaxed as a cat, singing softly to the stars. The words were too quiet to reach Elrond’s ears, but he suspected the young warrior also sang of the stars. He shook his head and smiled to himself. *Young ones. So light of heart. So curious and courageous, so eager to face the world and all its mysteries, light and dark. Would that I could be so young and innocent agai--*

It was as though he had dragged his feet and touched the metal rail, it rippled through him so sharply. A premonition as powerful as the one that had sent him racing after the very same elven prince nearly half a century before to deliver a message from his father. As powerful as the one that had led him to send Asfaloth--and whatever rider could get to him first--to meet the hobbits and Aragorn in the wild. *Of course. Of course! Why did I not see it before? All his youth, we the Ringbearers have known the youngest child of Thranduil was meant for something…this!* As swiftly as his feet could carry him, he rushed for the stairs. Having borne Vilya for so long, his intuition was seldom wrong. Perhaps that was why he had been so choosy with the elves in Rivendell. He had been waiting for just such a message.

*And now at last it comes, just as I had begun to despair. He is the only one who will serve Frodo’s purpose. I know now who shall be for the Elves.*

***

Legolas was still singing when a voice cleared its throat not a few feet behind him. Startled, he jumped up and found himself face-to-face with Lord Elrond. He blushed. “Forgive me, my lord.”

Elrond smiled, “I used to do just such a thing on this very roof when I had leisure, young Legolas. These days I fear I no longer have the time.”

The thought saddened the younger elf, all too aware of the darkness approaching that made Elrond’s life so frantic of late. “For that I am sorry.”

“It is so throughout the world.” The elven lord came and seated himself where Legolas had been, and after hesitating a moment, Legolas sat beside him. Gazing thoughtfully into the dark canyon, Lord Elrond remarked, “Our Faron has asked you to remain in Imladris until his wedding, I understand.”

“He has, my lord.” Legolas smiled to himself.

Elrond smiled as well. “It is a good match, Faron and young Galithil, both our realms agree. It pleases me to see such joy at a time of such uncertainty.”

“And me, my lord. I thank you for your hospitality. Always we find joy in visiting fair Rivendell.” Legolas was gazing appreciatively at the quiet buildings and graceful trees beneath the stars, and thus did not see the rather calculating stare Elrond was giving him.

“You have heard, I suppose, that Aragorn is to depart with the Fellowship?” Elrond asked.

Legolas nodded, tensing slightly. “I have. Though I fear for the fate of all free people while the Ring is abroad, Aragorn’s presence among Frodo’s companions shall ease my mind. I do not think the Ring would easily find corruption in him.”

“As I reared him, I am glad to hear that,” said Elrond, with a touch of mirth. Legolas grinned slightly. “And I understand you have already met the person I chose to represent the race of dwarves.” He raised his eyebrows at the very faint sound of a hastily-suppressed snicker. “You disapprove of my choice, son of Thranduil?” he asked delicately.

“Ahem, not at all, my lord!” Legolas answered.

“I felt that all the free races of Middle Earth must be represented as companions to the Ringbearer. That includes the dwarves, after all,” Elrond did not lose his smile.

“Of course,” replied the prince, allowing playful dubiousness to creep into his voice. “As you say.”

A soft chuckle told him that Elrond was not offended. “Aragorn and Boromir, of course, shall represent the race of men, and Frodo’s young servant Samwise shall also be for the hobbits. But I fear I am at a loss for elves to send with them.”

Legolas raised his eyebrows, “I would not have thought Rivendell in any way lacking in elves to choose from.”

“Even among so many candidates, I seek one in particular who is best suited to represent the Eldar race,” Elrond rose with a shake of his head and walked along the roof; Legolas followed him.

“But there are many great elven lords among your people here, my lord,” Legolas protested.

“Very true,” the Lord of Imladris agreed. “However, I have begun to see that past greatness in deeds and might may be a hindrance to any who would spend long weeks in close proximity to the Ring. Already, Glorfindel has refused--as you and my foster-son undoubtedly overheard some time ago.” Legolas blushed; he might have known Elrond would sense they were there. “Nay, it is something else I seek.” He glanced at Legolas and seemed rather amused by the puzzlement on the Mirkwood warrior’s face. “There are other qualities in our people that would avail the Ringbearer far more than power, young one. Frodo Baggins shall carry a great burden, both upon his body and on his spirit. I must find one of our kindred whose own spirit is strong enough to ease the Ringbearer’s struggle as well, who can face darkness without losing heart. And perhaps offer some comfort in the darkest times. One who can survive hardship without being tainted. That is the Eldar who will be best suited to travel close to the Ring.”

Legolas nodded thoughtfully, stepping further down the roof. He smiled knowingly, “Perhaps Elladan and Elrohir then? They can keep their spirit in the darkest of times, for each other and others, as I know all too well.”

“Perhaps. But my inner sense tells me nay.”

Legolas gazed down at the terrace below the roof ledge, wondering whether it was safe (not to mention couth) to jump down instead of climbing. It would certainly be faster. He turned back to Elrond, at a loss. “I can think of few in Rivendell who possess the attributes you desire as much as they.”

Elrond smiled. “I seek those attributes found in youth, son of Mirkwood. Elvish youth. A rare commodity in these fading days. I seek compassion and generosity. I seek patience and curiosity. I seek what cannot be found in any elven lord in Rivendell.”

“Then perhaps you might turn your search beyond Rivendell?” offered Legolas. “Surely you may find what you seek in Lothlórien or Mirkwood, if you have been unsuccessful in Imladris.”

“Would you aid me in that, Legolas?” Elrond asked casually.

“Of course, my lord,” Legolas answered in surprise. “Say only where you would send me in your service, and I shall go where you bid.”

Elrond smiled rather smugly. “In that case, Legolas of Mirkwood, son of Thranduil, I bid you go to Mordor, as companion to Frodo Baggins, and as representative of all our kindred. I bid you become a member of the Fellowship of the Ring.” Then he watched with an even broader grin as the son of Thranduil’s eyes widened, his mouth opened, and he took a reflexive step backward--into thin air and promptly fell off the roof with a thud. To himself, he murmured, “I knew you were the right choice.”

Legolas hit the ground with a force that drove all the air from his lungs and left him gasping and flat on his back. Though otherwise uninjured, he lay for several moments completely unable to move, due to the impact and to shock. He barely noticed the pain in his back. *He wants…he wants me to…WHAT?!*

The soft thump of a more graceful descent penetrated his ringing ears, and a perfectly level voice asked, “Are you all right, Legolas?”

Bereft of air, his voice did not work on the first try, but he finally managed to rasp out, “My lord…”

Soft laughter reached him, and strong hands lightly took his shoulders and pulled him into a sitting position. “Spare yourself a moment, young prince. Catch your breath and hold your tongue while I say my piece.” Legolas sat there, open-mouthed, dusty, and bruised, but too stupefied by the elven lord’s suggestion to even lament his wounded pride. “I have seen many fine qualities in you, Legolas, qualities rare even in a warrior of Mirkwood. I know you hunger to see more of the world, and that duty to the defense of your people against the shadow keeps you home. None can doubt your courage, nor your skill as a warrior. But most of all, I have seen that when you set yourself to a task, naught can turn you from it. Frodo needs a companion such as you, a guardian such as you. And against the Ring, I can think of none more suited to represent all Eldar--now do not deny me, Legolas,” he urged sharply as the young elf began to protest, a hint of panic in his eyes.

Legolas dropped his head, suddenly seeming a century younger. *And now I see before me that very same elf princeling who stole quietly into the Great Gathering Trial, barely of qualifying age, only to outrun, outride, and outshoot every other novice warrior in Middle Earth. Yes, Legolas, you are the one. Galadriel always said you had a great destiny.* Elrond held out a hand and gently lifted the younger elf’s chin, forcing Legolas to meet his eyes. “I know you have doubt in yourself, Legolas. I would not have chosen you if you did not. The Ring is altogether evil, but facing it, we may turn our perceived weaknesses to strengths. You will not let it tempt you as other, more seasoned and celebrated warriors might. You have the pride of the Eldar, but you will not let it blind you. You must hold true to yourself and your heart.”

Wide-eyed and stunned into silence, Legolas slowly nodded. Elrond smiled. “I have great faith in you, Legolas. In the Fellowship, you shall stand for us all, son of the Eldar. You shall soon see your purpose.” He squeezed the prince’s shoulders, rose, and walked off into the darkened House.

Legolas had no idea how long he sat there stupidly on the paving stones outside the House of Elrond. *Did he truly ask such a thing? Does he believe I could be strong enough to represent all the Eldar? That I could resist the corruption of the Enemy’s Ring? Am I worthy of such a task? Could he truly believe this?* Closing his eyes and swallowing, Legolas shook his head, trying to clear the fog in it. Then his eyes flew open and his stomach dropped out. “And did I truly say YES?!”

***

The next day…

Aragorn and Boromir were summoned by Gandalf and Lord Elrond to meet with them. “I shall summon the hobbits momentarily. Aragorn, before you depart, I shall order the Sword of Elendil forged anew. You go into your own now, son of Arathorn. You shall carry the blade of your fathers.”

Aragorn felt an unexpected tightness in his throat as he gazed at his foster-father, and Gandalf cleared his throat. “Lord Elrond selected two more for the Fellowship of the Ring last night.”

“Indeed?” asked Aragorn. “Who?”

“Gimli, Glóin’s son, to stand for the dwarves, and for the elves…” Gandalf suddenly cast a broad grin at Aragorn, “For the Eldar race shall stand Legolas, son of Thranduil.”

Aragorn blinked. “Legolas?” he looked incredulously at Elrond.

“You think such a choice is erroneous, Estel?” asked the Lord of Imladris, with a twinkle in his eye.

“I…” Aragorn trailed off, taken by his own thoughts of Legolas and what he knew of the elf. Looking back at Elrond, he smiled. “Nay, my lord. In fact, now that Legolas as a possibility has finally entered my mind, I can think of none better, and marvel at how I could have overlooked him.”

“Legolas rather prefers being overlooked,” remarked Gandalf, causing them all to chuckle, “but I fear the Valar were determined that he not be, in this. I am with you, son of Arathorn, there are none better to stand for the elves. Legolas may not realize it, but I believe it was this purpose that he was born to.”

Aragorn laughed, shaking his head. “How did he respond?”

Elrond’s snicker confirmed the heir of Isildur’s mental image of Legolas being rendered speechless with shock. “I expect he would have gaped at me like a mad thing for some time--had he not fallen off the southeast roof.” The room erupted into laughter, even joined by Boromir, though the son of Denethor looked a tad confused.

“You shall soon know much of the son of Thranduil, Boromir,” said Aragorn. “Legolas shall be a worthy member of the Company of the Ring.”

Wiping tears from his eyes, Elrond nodded. “He possesses all the heart and merriment of the Eldar, but more than enough skill and strength for one so young.”

“A young Eldar?” asked Boromir, apparently considering the idea a contradiction in terms.

“By elven standards, yes, Legolas is young,” said Gandalf. “But he shall serve the company well, I’ve no doubt. But come, let us summon him, the son of Glóin, and the hobbits, and tell them of our plans, for the time draws near when the Fellowship must depart.”

***

When Legolas, Gimli, and the four hobbits had arrived, Elrond spoke to them. “The time has come,” he said. “If the Ring is to set out, it must go soon. But those who go with it must not count on their errand being aided by war or force. They must pass into the domain of the Enemy far from aid. Do you still hold to your word, Frodo, that you will be the Ringbearer?”

“I do,” said Frodo. “I will go with Sam.”

“Then I cannot help you much; not even with counsel,” said Elrond. “And I will choose you companions to go with you, as far as they will or fortune allows. The number must be few, since your hope is in speed and secrecy. Had I a host of elves in armour of the Elder Days, it would avail little, save to arouse the power of Mordor.” Legolas caught the Lord of Imladris glancing meaningfully at him. To his own surprise, he had not suffered from a crisis of nerves when the servant of the Last Homely House said that Lord Elrond wished to see him--and all those who would be accompanying the Ringbearer. A strange aura of calm had settled over him--*rather like one who walks willingly to his own execution,* he thought whimsically.

Elrond was speaking to Frodo. “The Company of the Ring shall be Nine; and the Nine Walkers shall be set against the Nine Riders that are evil. With you and your faithful servant, Gandalf will go, for this shall be his great task, and maybe the end of his labours. For the rest, they shall represent the other Free Peoples of the World: Elves, Dwarves, and Men. Legolas shall be for the elves,” the hobbits looked curiously at Legolas, “and Gimli son of Glóin for the dwarves. They are willing to go at least to the passes of the Mountains, and maybe beyond. For men you shall have Aragorn son of Arathorn, for the Ring of Isildur concerns him closely.”

“Strider!” cried Frodo.

“Yes,” he said with a smile. “I ask leave once again to be your companion, Frodo.”

“I would have begged you to come,” said Frodo. Legolas smiled, feeling himself relax. He admired the hobbit’s taste. “Only I thought you were going to Minas Tirith with Boromir.”

“I am,” said Aragorn. “And the Sword that was broken shall be reforged ere I set out to war. But your road and our road lie together for many hundreds of miles. Therefore Boromir will also be in the Company. He is a valiant man.” The gazes of all fell then upon Boromir, who looked slightly self-conscious, and gave a little bow of acknowledgment.

“There remain two more to be found,” said Elrond. “These I will consider. Of my own household I may find some that it seems good to me to send.”

“But that will leave no place for us!” cried Pippin in dismay. “We don’t want to be left behind. We want to go with Frodo.”

“That is because you do not understand and cannot imagine what lies ahead,” said Elrond, like a patient parent to an  
overeager child. The youngest hobbit looked so desperate at the thought of being unable to join the company that Legolas felt an unexpected and powerful surge of sympathy, almost kinship. He did not realize until later from whence the thoughts came, but he nearly spoke up in the young Took’s defense, except that Gandalf broke in first.

“Neither does Frodo,” said the wizard, unexpectedly supporting Pippin. “Nor do any of us see clearly. It is true that if these hobbits understood the danger, they would not dare to go. But they would still wish to go, or wish that they dared, and be shamed and unhappy. I think, Elrond, that in this matter it would be well to trust rather to their friendship than to great wisdom. Even if you chose for us an elf-lord, such as Glorfindel, he could not storm the Dark Tower, nor open the road to the Fire by the power that is in him.”

“You speak gravely,” said Elrond. “But I am in doubt. The Shire, I forebode, is not free now from peril, and these two I had thought to send back there as messengers, to do what they could, according to the fashion of their country, to warn the people of their danger. In any case, I judge that the younger of these two, Peregrin Took, should remain. My heart is against his going.”

“Then, Master Elrond, you will have to lock me in prison, or send me home tied in a sack,” said Pippin, lifting his chin and folding his arms. “For otherwise I shall follow the Company.” He looked so small, yet so fiercely determined, with his chest rather puffed out like a dwarf, that Legolas felt the urge to laugh and saw Aragorn biting his lip.

The Lord of Imladris gave in. “Let it be so then. You shall go,” said Elrond, and he sighed. “Now the tale of Nine is filled. In seven days the Company must depart.”

He looked around the group one last time, clearly offering the opportunity for any last hesitations or changes of heart. Legolas’s mind raced. *I did not truly agree to this! Elrond maneuvered me into it, a fact which he well knows. I only came here as my father’s messenger, not to embark on this…this…quest! I am not great enough for such a vital task to all Middle Earth! How can I…* Elrond’s eyes, and Aragorn’s, had come to rest on him. *But could I ever live with myself if I refused Lord Elrond’s quest? I failed Aragorn once already.* He sighed mentally. *Nay, I shall not shame my father and my people again. Lord Elrond has chosen me; that is cause enough to make the decision even if he were not my lord and host.* He pulled his mind out of its reverie and met Elrond’s gaze, giving the Lord of Imladris a barely-perceptible nod. Lord Elrond’s eyes brightened, and he responded in kind.

*Whether I expected it or not, it seems I am to be one of the Nine Walkers. One of the Fellowship of the Ring.*

*****  



	32. Epilogue:  Famous Last Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's adventures and trials as he reaches the Warrior's Coming of Age. Begins around the time of "The Hobbit."

Aragorn ran to meet his friend as they departed the room where they had spoken with Lord Elrond. “Legolas!” The elf turned around, his expression unreadable. “You do not have to do this.”

The son of Thranduil blinked, looking rather amused. “What?”

“I…” Aragorn groped for words to express the faint remorse that had dogged him ever since the secret council. “Legolas, I know you carry the weight of Gollum’s escape on your shoulders, and I do not wish you to feel obligated to place yourself in such peril--”

The elf’s soft laughter startled him. “Peace, Aragorn, I told you before not to speak so. You cannot excuse my failure, as you well know. But worry not about my motives; I would never refuse any request sincerely made of me by Lord Elrond, and he is set on my departure with the Fellowship. That is reason enough for my mind.” He smiled then. “So I fear you shall be forced to put up with me for some time on your journey to Minas Tirith.”

“What a dreadful thought!” They both laughed. “Narsil is to be reforged ere we depart. I have decided it shall have a new name when it shines again.”

“What will you call it?”

“Anduril.”

“The Flame of the West. Fitting,” they walked together along one of Rivendell’s paths, overlooking the canyon. Legolas glanced to the other side and saw a dark figure, clad in flowing gray, crossing a bridge. “There is the Lady Arwen.” Aragorn paused at the railing, watching her passage with a strange look in his eyes that Legolas had never seen. Almost unconsciously, the man’s hand strayed to a silver chain about his neck that Legolas had also not seen before. “What have you there?”

Aragorn blinked. He seemed to have forgotten for a moment that Legolas was there. Then he looked almost bashful, and rather tense. “I…”

The elf took a step forward, worried. “What troubles you, my friend?”

Aragorn hastily shook his head. “Nay, naught troubles me. It is that…it is Arwen.”

Legolas grinned. Now he knew that look. “Be not embarrassed, Aragorn, you are hardly the first man or elf in Middle Earth to become smitten with the Evenstar.”

His eyes anxious, Aragorn said, “Legolas, I fear it is far more than that.” With slight reluctance, he slowly drew the chain from within his tunic, exposing the pendant that hung upon it. It was a beautifully-crafted white gem, set in silver.

Legolas’s breath caught. He knew that ornament. Nearly every elf in Middle Earth knew it. “Aragorn!” he breathed. Aragorn’s eyes searched his, seeming not to know what to say. Legolas realized now why the mortal was so uncertain about revealing this. He knew that Aragorn’s possession of so valuable a token belonging to the Evenstar could mean only one thing. *It is more than an infatuation upon his part. She returns it. Moreover…she would not give such a thing to him unless…a Elbereth!* Softly, he touched Aragorn’s shoulder. “She has pledged herself to you?”

“And I to her,” Aragorn said quickly, and more than a little defensively. He seemed to greatly desire Legolas’s approval of their union.

Legolas’s mind whirled with the implications of it. “What does that mean…for her?” he asked quietly.

Aragorn looked away. “It means what it has always meant for elves who would bind themselves to men. If we wed, she must…” he shook his head. “I loved her from the first time I saw her. I thought she was Tinúviel. But I was too young then to see what my love would do to her. And now she will not be dissuaded from forsaking Valinor to remain in Middle Earth…at my side.” Raising pleading eyes to his friend, he said, “I love her, Legolas. But I did not intend for this to happen. Do not think ill of me for it.”

Legolas listened, his heart full. “It grieves my heart to think of the death of the Evenstar, Aragorn. But as to your feelings…I do not think ill of you. I have known you many years, and seen your courage, your noble heart. You are not unworthy of Arwen. And if she has given her heart to you, that is enough for me. I wish you well of her.”

Aragorn sighed. “I fear others of your kindred may not see it so. Even Lord Elrond has said that I may not bind her nor any other woman to me until I am King of the Reunified Lands. That is another reason why I go.” A strange little prickle ran through Legolas, and he hastily turned away. “Legolas?” Catching sight of the elf’s shaking shoulders, Aragorn grabbed his arm. “Legolas? What--” He broke off in astonishment when his friend turned back, grinning helplessly with laughter. “What ails you?”

“Forgive me,” gasped Legolas, trying in vain to control the mirth that had suddenly come over him. “I was just…imagining…Candrochon’s reaction!” Laughter burst out in earnest now, and he nearly doubled over.

Aragorn gaped at him for a moment, then began to grin sheepishly. “You intend to have much merriment at my expense over this, don’t you?”

“Perhaps a little.” Legolas shook his head and gripped the man’s shoulder. “Fear not, my friend. All will turn out well. And you shall be King, and Arwen Queen? May the Valar hasten that day, for it will mean greatness has returned at last to the race of men, son of Arathorn.”

“Don’t say that around Boromir!”

“Point taken.”

“And speaking of true greatness, I think the Eldar shall find much glory brought to them by Legolas of Mirkwood in the Fellowship.”

Legolas laughed, “Aragorn, between your presence and Mithrandir’s, I doubt there will be many great deeds for me to do.”

“And you of all people, son of Thranduil, know that there is more to greatness than mere deeds. I think you shall have much to offer the Fellowship of the Ring.”

“If you say so.”

***

A day or two before the Company sets out…

“I am sorry, Faron. I truly hoped to stand with you, but I doubt if I shall be returned within a year. It might be a very long time.”

Faron put a hand on Legolas’s shoulder. They stood upon a balcony with Faron’s bride-to-be, Galithil, and Merilin and Candrochon. “I do not blame you. You have a great quest ahead, where you shall stand for all the Eldar. Nay, Legolas, I think I may excuse your absence at my wedding if you are busy saving Middle Earth from Sauron.” Galithil nodded.

“When mean you to be married?”

“In the Autumn, next year,” said Galithil. “I told Faron that if you are busy defeating Dark Lords and winning glory for the Eldar, he should ask Glorfindel to stand with him.”

“That is a fine choice. He is your captain,” agreed Candrochon.

Legolas sighed. “I am still sorry. I missed Merilin and Cand’s wedding, and now yours. And when I return, the world shall have changed again.”

“Legolas, with any luck, you shall be the one who brought about the change,” said Merilin, moving to his side. “And the change shall be that the Enemy is defeated at last, and all the free peoples of Middle Earth may find an end to his scourge upon their lands. That shall be a welcome change, if the quest succeeds.”

“Very true,” Legolas laughed. Still, he could not shake the lingering sadness that had clung to him like a fog since he realized he would be leaving much sooner than he had planned, and would be abroad in Middle Earth for at least a year.

Faron was watching him. “I know that look, Legolas. We shall still be here when you return. Be not so troubled.”

Legolas sighed and dropped his head. They knew him far too well. He smiled at them. “I know not why this melancholy has taken me. But I have the strongest feeling that the world shall be very different when I return…even more so than when we returned from the war party.”

Candrochon shrugged. “Then it is different. Does that necessarily bode ill? We are young, Legolas, the world will change much yet before our time in it is done. It does no good to fear it.”

“And besides,” said Merilin. “You have every reason for pride. You are embarking on a great mission, one that could end much of the suffering in this world. I think it safe to say no elf has been a part of such a company in all our history.”

“Very true!” laughed Galithil, pointing to the terrace below them. The four hobbits had come scampering out onto it, laughing and talking. “Hobbits, elves, men, Mithrandir…”

“And dwarves,” grumbled Legolas, as Gimli the dwarf joined the hobbits on the terrace. Soon the five were seated beneath a large tree, fat with red autumn apples, talking of past adventures, and of food. “It shall be interesting, to say the least. I shall be the only elf.”

Faron was watching him silently. “But the man Aragorn is your friend, is he not? Not to mention Mithrandir. You shall not be alone.”

“That is true. Still, I shall miss you, my friends.”

Merilin and Galithil idly watched the dwarf, who was now seated upon a stone bench, with the hobbits all about him. Due to the difference in size, they were like children at his feet, listening to him telling stories of his father’s exploits at Lonely Mountain and gesturing grandly, causing the sun to flicker off the gaudy pearl ring on his finger. “I should like to know hobbits better. They are such strange, yet endearing creatures. I rather envy you, Legolas,” said Galithil.

Legolas smirked knowingly at Faron. “And you should doubtlessly get on better than I with the dwarf, dear kinswoman!”

Galithil snorted, but Merilin came to her defense. “Perhaps you will get on better with him than you fear, Legolas. After all, you are almost as pretty as she is!” Then she had to dive playfully behind her husband for protection as Legolas launched himself at her, pretending to brandish his knife.

Once the giggling group had calmed themselves, Legolas sighed. “I wish Lord Elrond had sent one of you with me. I have never been without all your company entirely.”

“It must be,” said Candrochon. “But worry not, we shall be with you in spirit. Our hearts all go with you.”

“I know.” Legolas watched the youngest hobbit, Pippin, picking more apples from the tree, though he had to climb onto the bench next to Gimli to reach the lowest branch. “Most of all I wish Tathar were still here.”

“Do not we all,” agreed Merilin. She put her hand on his shoulder. None of them had ever gotten over Tathar’s death, but Legolas’s closest friends knew that he had suffered the greatest. “But perhaps more than any of us, he shall be with you.” She smiled and squeezed him lightly, “Perhaps that is how you have managed to keep yourself in one piece despite all the trouble you get into.”

Legolas laughed, “My brother has said similar things to that effect, that someone must be interceding with the Valar on my behalf!” The others joined him. “Tathar did have a way of keeping me from getting killed in all our escapades. I hope I have his blessing on this journey.”

Galithil grinned, “He always said you were destined for greatness.”

Legolas snorted. “Tathar said many overblown things.”

“Oh come, Legolas, when it came to you he was seldom wrong, you just conceded that point. He was the one who persuaded you to enter the Trial.”

“True,” Legolas sighed wistfully, feeling a deep pang of loneliness despite the closeness of his companions. “None could read my thoughts and moods as he, nor speak as freely to me, and I to him. There was nothing we could not face together. Ai, how I miss him still.” He shook his head and smiled apologetically at the others for such dismal words, but they were smiling.

“Be not so sad, Legolas,” said Merilin. “Cand said it; we are young. We are with you still, and you shall find many more friends before your time is done.”

“There is no replacing Tathar.”

“Nay, but there remain many elves in Middle Earth still. And one day we shall all sail to Valinor and rejoin those of our people who have already passed. Besides, there are many kinds of friendship. Perhaps one day you shall marry,” Faron offered. Galithil and Merilin giggled, and Legolas rolled his eyes.

“Do not be so quick to dismiss the future, my friend!” cautioned Candrochon. “We are indeed to young to judge what fortune may have in store for us.” He smiled and put an arm around Merilin’s waist. “Even the Mirror of Galadriel cannot see all ends--though it sees most, I grant.” They laughed. “But who knows? Some maiden may yet steal your heart.” They laughed harder at Legolas’s dubious expression and clapped his back. “And you may yet find a friend in Middle Earth as noble and true to you as Tathar was.” Grinning, he gestured down to the hobbits and dwarf below them. “You certainly have a unique opportunity, meeting all the free peoples of Middle Earth on one journey. You may find some rare friends indeed among them.”

Merilin nodded thoughtfully. “I could see Legolas making friends with hobbits. From what I have heard of them and their Shire, they are in some ways not unlike elves. Certainly, they have a pleasing gentleness. What think you, Legolas?”

“I think it most possible,” Legolas agreed, watching Meriadoc and Pippin demonstrating some kind of dance while Frodo, Samwise, and Gimli laughed and applauded. “They are such merry folk.”

“And you have Aragorn and Mithrandir, and even Boromir, though he seems a bit pompous,” added Galithil.

“Better a pompous man than a modest dwarf,” teased Candrochon, who then had to duck to avoid a clout from Galithil.

Faron winked at the others. “She still carries that little gift from Sháin of the Lonely Mountain.” Galithil defiantly pulled a small chain from around her neck, and sure enough, the moonstone hung there.

Legolas shook his head at them. “I granted her then that it was a fair gift, but I still hold that Sháin was a fluke among nature.” Galithil snorted, aware of the futility of debating the point with him.

“There, you see, Legolas?” said Merilin. “On this journey and the many others you’ve yet to take in life, I think you shall find many rare and different friends.”

The son of Thranduil smiled at them. “I grant it. As you say, I still have you, and the quest of the Ring shall certainly be…different.” They all laughed. “And perhaps I shall find friends among them. But Tathar…was the most true, honest, and complete friend I have ever had. A friendship borne of such great time and trial cannot be easily found.” he watched absently as the dwarf rose to demonstrate strokes of his axe to the hobbits.

Legolas shook his head. “I shall never know so great a friendship again.”

 

**********************************  
THE END…or perhaps, The Beginning?  
**********************************

 


End file.
